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LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT    OF 


Class 


The  White  Flame 


THE 

WHITE  FLAME 

A  PLAY  BY  LUKE  NORTH 


The  Golden  Press  :  Los  Angeles 
MCMX 


Copyright,  1909 
Copyright,  1010 
By  James  H.  Griffes 
All  rights  reserved 


pt> 


Revised  Author's  Edition 
of  240  copies  of  which 
this  is  No. 


198449. 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

TEACHER,  guide  and  counselor  on  the  Way 
ALESSANDRO,  a  neophite  and  pupil 
JUDITH,  a  virgin  of  the  temple 
ALEXANDER  RELTON  (Alessandro) 
MRS.  JULIA  LISTON  (Judith) 

MRS.  MERTON-BLAKE,  patron  of  Egyptian 

archeology 
JANET  HARDS 
DR.  PLODINGER 


of         S 

"    "- 

The  White  Flame 


ACT  ONE 

CAUSE 


The  Time  of  this  Act  is  in  the  early  dawn  of  Egypt, 
when  the  pyramids  were  new  and  human  motive  was 
little  mercenary,  when  religion  and  philosophy  were  one 
and  did  not  claim  to  be  other  than  the  Explanation  of 
Life  and  Nature.  This  was  before  theology,  when  cere 
monies  were  known  to  be  but  symbols  and  priests 
were  but  teachers  and  friendly  guides  on  the  Way. 

It  was  a  time  analogous  to  that  still  earlier  time  in 
which  man  ceased  to  be  Androgyne,  and  the  De-volu- 
tionary  forces  were  still  accentuating  the  Separation  of 
the  sexes.  Hence  Asceticism  was  logically  the  way  of 
knowledge  and  power. 

[A  time  remote  and  a  Condition  now  Reversed.] 

The  Scene  is  in  a  chamber  of  the  Great  Pyramid.  A 
little  to  the  right  of  center  is  an  Altar  on  which  burns 
steadily  a  Blue  Flame.  Back  of  this  is  an  imposing 
entrance  guarded  by  massive  doors  over  which  is  an 


io  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

intense  White  Light  that  remains  very  noticeable  until 
almost  the  end  of  the  scene  —  and  finally  expires.  The 
walls  and  ceiling  are  of  a  polished  colorless  stone 
that  readily  reflects  the  predominating  hue  of  the  lights. 
A  few  silk-like  tapestries  symbolically  marked  relieve 
the  bareness  of  the  walls,  and  the  Exits  to  right  and 
to  left  center  are  closed  by  finely  woven  draperies  of 
dull  and  indefinite  yellowish  hues  that  blend  with  and 
reflect  the  changing  color  tone  of  the  room. 

To  the  left  is  a  large  mound-like  couch  covered 
with  soft  textures,  carelessly  and  loosely  arranged,  in 
hues  verging  from  gray  to  almost  green.  It  is  some 
what  strewn,  and  the  ground  about  it,  with  white,  yel 
low,  and  pale  pink  roses,  and  with  lotus  blossoms. 
These  flowers  are  individually  inconspicuous  and  in 
mass  rather  neutral  of  color  and  importance. 

Extreme  symplicity  (but  neither  hardness  nor  bare 
ness)  distinguishes  the  chamber  and  its  every  ap 
pointment.  At  no  time  during  this  Act  is  there  a  sharp, 
positive  color  in  the  room. 

The  robes  worn  by  the  TEACHER  and  by  ALESSANDRO 
are  not  white,  but  of  a  slightly  toned  yellowish  gray  that 
might  be  mistaken  for  white.  The  simple  but  ample 
costume  of  Judith  is  in  hue  a  very  soft  but  light  blue. 
The  children  are  garbed  in  soft  neutral  tints  and  shades, 
and  of  the  flowers  and  greenery  they  carry  none  is 
brilliant  or  positive  in  color. 


THE  FIRST  ACT  11 

During  almost  the  entire  Act  the  prevailing  color 
tone  of  the  room  is  distinctly  blue,  like  the  Altar  light  — 
a  diaphanous  blue  like  summer  mists  between  mountain 
ranges. 

As  the  Curtain  rises  a  group  of  garlanded  children  are 
slowly  circling  the  Altar  to  decorate  it  with  lotus  blos 
soms  and  greenery.  This  pretty  ceremony  is  accom 
panied  by  imposing  but  not  solemn  music  and  occupies 
the  first  five  minutes,  by  which  time  the  audience  is 
seated,  ladies  have  removed  their  hats  and  there  is  some 
chance  of  the  opening  lines  being  heard. 

Right  and  Left  are  from  the  viewpoint 
of  the  audience. 


Enter  from  left  the  TEACHER,  an  elderly  man, 
and  ALESSANDRO  his  pupil,  much  younger,  about 
thirty-five. 

Children  finish  their  innocent  incantations  and 
exit  to  right. 

ALESSANDRO  (gazing  intently  at  the  Altar). 
The  blue  flame ;  is  it  colder  than  the  fires  of  the 
rose? 

TEACHER.  Hotter,  as  the  fire  is  hotter  than  its 
flame  and  the  flame  than  its  aura :  a  fiercer  flame 


12  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

than  red  or  gold  —  tenser,  deeper,  a  subtler  blaze 
that  burns  a  finer  substance  than  does  the  grosser 
flame.  It  is  the  blue  flame  of  mentality,  the  true 
symbol  of  Man. 

ALESSANDRO  (musingly).  And  the  test  is  ever 
by  fire? 

TEACHER.  Every  test  of  life  is  a  flame.  Here, 
in  this  Chamber  of  the  Blue  Light,  remote  from 
the  dust  and  moil  of  the  world,  shall  fire  read 
thy  secret  thoughts  and  yearnings. 

ALESSANDRO.  Of  the  flesh,  I  have  none. 

TEACHER.  May  the  flame  attest  it. 

ALESSANDRO.  The  flame!  How  shall  it  attest 
my  thought? 

TEACHER.  This  altar  fire  shall  burn  a  steadfast 
blue  that  verges  to  a  purer  white,  only  while  the 
human  thought  within  its  range  is  centered  on 
the  finer  things  of  mind  and  soul  —  only  while 
active  thinking  and  those  aspirations  of  the  soul 
that  lie  beyond  thought,  shall  prevail.  Should 
the  mind  waver  and  emotion  steal  upon  thee,  thy 
lack  of  readiness  to  enter  the  Chamber  of  the 
White  Flame  shall  be  attested  by  the  altar  light. 


THE  FIRST  ACT  13 

ALESSANDRO.  How  attested,  my  father? 

TEACHER.  The  flame  shall  change  its  color  — 
from  blue  to  gold,  to  rose  —  perchance  to  sput 
tering  sodden  red. 

ALESSANDRO.  Is  this  magic? 

TEACHER.  Magic  is  for  children.  Here  we  talk 
as  men.  This  altar  light  burns  from  a  chemical 
so  pure,  in  an  atmosphere  so  fine,  that  vibrations 
of  every  thought  and  feeling  affect  it.  Who  shall 
rule  his  mind  and  keep  it  to  the  diamond  point 
of  aspiration  —  he  shall  safely  pass  this  chamber 
and  enter  the  fiercer  flame  of  the  White  Light. 

ALESSANDRO.  And  this  is  thev  test  of  fire. 

TEACHER.  Every  span  of  life  is  but  a  flame, 
my  son,  a  flame  to  burn  away  the  dross  that 
hides  Reality. 

ALESSANDRO.  What  is  Reality,  my  teacher? 

TEACHER.  Words  but  symbol  it.  It  is  the  heart 
of  the  flame.  In  the  silence  of  the  White  Cham 
ber  thou  canst  reach  nearer  the  Heart  and  know 
of  Reality  more  than  words  mean. 

ALESSANDRO.  And  this  flame  that  life  is  burns 
away  the  errors  and  missteps  —  consumes  the 


14  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

dross  and  pettiness  of  existence. 

TEACHER.  It  is  true.  But  there  is  a  better 
truth.  Life  holds  no  dross  —  save  for  those  who 
think  it.  This  is  truth  that  shall  humble  thee: 
In  all  the  world  is  nothing  base  or  mean  or  use 
less,  and  he  who  treads  the  Way  to  liberation 
from  Rebirth  shall  learn  to  wait  for  the  slowest 
traveler. 

ALESSANDRO.  I  do  not  ask  for  what  another 
may  not  have. 

TEACHER.  Nor  can  any  gain  that  which  the 
meanest  shall  not  have  ere  life's  long  span  of 
deaths  and  births  be  over.  In  man's  Great  Day 
on  earth  each  soul  plays  every  part,  and  learns 
to  bare  its  heart  to  every  cry  of  human  pain  or 
joy.  Thus  shall  the  mass  attuned  become,  its  dis 
sonance  fade,  and  harmony  be  won. 

ALESSANDRO.  And  then? 

TEACHER.  Our  Night  of  time  prevails,  and 
man  goes  forth  in  one  vast  group  to  gain  his 
cosmic  rest. 

ALESSANDRO.  The  end  of  time —  ? 

TEACHER.  Not  so.  For  on  the  cosmic  morrow, 


THE  FIRST  ACT  15 

in  mighty  caravan,  the  human  group,  now  god 
like  in  its  range,  betakes  itself  to  other  worlds. 
'  Tis  profitless  to  think  much  on  it  —  but  speak 
not  of  "  the  end."  There  is  no  end  for  mind  and 
heart  that's  free  to  soar  beyond  sensations'  con 
fines  and  reach  the  core  of  things  within  the 
flame. 

'"Like  a  white  eagle  on  some  towering  peak 

Fronting  the  burning  sun  with  radiant  eyes, 

So  let  thy  mind  to  heights  of  knowledge  rise. 

When  thou  art  hungered,  flesh  the  curved  beak 

Of  Meditation  on  wild  thoughts  that  break 

Old  boundaries  through.  Fly  thou  'neath  boundless 

skies, 

In  the  fierce  joy  of  power  that  satisfies, 
To  rend  and  to  devour,  and  still  to  seek. 
Yea,  let  thy  mind  plumed  with  deific  might, 
Flashing  from  star  to  star,  all  worlds  explore; 
Reaching  new  realms  each  year  with  tireless  flight, 
Breasting  deep-winged  the  Empyrean's  purple  core, 
Bathed  in  the  Sun  of  suns  whose  dazzling  light 
Leads  thee  to  gaze  and  fly  forevermore." 

AUSSSANDRO.  My  heart  is  lifted  by  the  maj 
esty  of  the  picture. 

*The  Hnee  quoted  are  by  Alys  Thompson. 


16  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

TEACHER.  Yet  in  words  as  blunt  and  bald  as 
mother  tongue  may  carry  would  I  speak.  Let 
children  have  their  toys  of  metaphor  and  trope. 
Here  by  this  flame  of  which  thy  very  soul  is 
part  —  which  vibrates  to  that  human  part  of 
man  that  spans  the  gulf  of  sleep  and  carries  o'er 
from  life  to  life  —  we  talk  as  soul  to  soul.  When 
you  have  reached  the  Chamber  of  White  Fire 
and  stand  within  its  fusing  flame,  then  speech 
within  thee  shall  be  stilled,  cold  reason  laid  aside, 
and  thou  shalt  Know. 

ALESSANDRO.  I  would  enter. 
TEACHER.  Patience.  The   door   of  knowledge 
slowly  turns.  The  White  Flame  but  fuses  and 
attests.  Of   itself   it   gives   no   knowledge.  And 
there  are  distances  yet  to  compass. 
ALESSANDRO.  Distances? 
TEACHER.  As  presently  you  will  find.  A  final 
word  I'd  give  you  now,  my  son.  What  is  this 
that  we  call  a  Man? 

ALESSANDRO.  Your  word  I  wait. 
TEACHER.  A  compound  then  of  Mind,  Soul, 
and  Spirit. 


THE  FIRST  ACT  17 

ALESSANDRO.  The  sacred  triangle? 

TEACHER.  The  triad,  true,  though  I  speak  it 
not  as  sacred.  No  thing  is  sacred  beyond  an 
other.  All  things  are  sacred  —  all  and  nothing. 
But  empty  sounds,  to  real  men,  are  words  of 
praise  and  blame. 

ALESSANDRO.  Some  things  change  quicker  — 
some  last  longer? 

TEACHER.  Yes ;  and  of  that  Three  which  man 
is,  the  Spirit  only  is  eternal  —  and  Formless. 

ALESSANDRO.  Mind  and  Soul,  then,  have  form  ? 

TEACHER.  Yes,  form,  though  mortal  eyes  may 
not  behold  it.  And  having  form  they  change  — 
but  slowly,  slowly,  lasting  out  the  round  of  man's 
long  earthly  cycle  on  the  Wheel  of  Rebirth.  And 
in  these  forms  of  mind  and  soul  there  dwells  the 
Formless  Everlasting  Ray  that  wills  and  works 
and  builds  from  Dawn  till  Night,  and  then  from 
Night  till  Dawn  again,  unending! 

ALESSANDRO.  A  mighty  picture.  Is  man  so 
old  —  his  world  so  vast? 

TEACHER.  That  more  than  human  which  man 
is  hath  no  Beginning  —  his  world  no  confines. 


i8  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

ALESSANDRO.  Of  man's  form  and  flesh  thou 
sayest  but  little,  my  teacher. 

TEACHER.  Have  we  not  done  with  these? 
Man  's  not  his  form,  nor  yet  the  wild  emotions 
that  control  and  e'er  destroy  it.  Man  is  that  trin 
ity  which  intermittently  reclothes  itself  in  denser 
form.  This  form  man  changes  as  the  outer  man 
puts  off  and  on  his  coat. 

ALESSANDRO.  This  change  —  this  change  that 
men  call  death  — 

TEACHER.  Is  but  life's  Longer  Sleep. 

ALESSANDRO.  To  die  then  is  to  fall  asleep,  and 
wake  again  in  some  new  form? 

TEACHER.  In  some  new  human  form.  Man 
does  not  sink  beneath  his  own  estate,  to  enter 
forms  of  animals,  as  some  who  reason  not  nor 
see  the  Way  of  Things  have  said. 

ALESSANDRO.  But  in  this  Longer  Sleep  we 
lose  the  memory  of  daylight  happenings. 

TEACHER.  Of  daylight's  petty,  fleeting  hap 
penings.  We  do  not  carry  to  deep  sleep  ephem 
eral  things  of  the  external  world. 

ALESSANDRO.  And  so  the  loves  and  friendships 


THE  FIRST  ACT  19 

of  a  life  must  end  with  death?  And  friends  and 
lovers  know  each  other  not  upon  the  new  life's 
morrow  ? 

TEACHER.  Why,  that  is  as  it  may  be.  If  friends 
and  lovers  know  each  other  but  by  the  garb  they 
wear,  then  with  the  change  of  garb  must  recog 
nition  cease. 

ALESSANDRO.  But  bonds  that  reach  beneath  the 
flesh  and  form  —  ? 

TEACHER.  May  yet  not  rest  upon  more  lasting 
base  than  the  emotions.  These  ever  change  and 
fade:  It  is  their  nature. 

AivESSANDRO.  There  may  be  stronger  bonds  ? 

TEACHER.  There  are.  And  bonds  that  bind 
Reincarnating  Souls  outlast  the  sleep  of  many 
Nights  of  life  and  stretch  into  eternity. 

ALESSANDRO.  But  we  forget.  Is  there  no  sleep 
without  the  loss  of  memory? 

TEACHER.  Relatively  none,  since  memory  is 
but  the  holding  fast  of  things  external  and 
ephemeral.  But  there  is  sleep  without  the  letting 
go  of  life,  and  they  who  pass  into  the  White 
Flame  shall  learn  to  draw  the  Shroud  of  Change 


20  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

about  them,  nor  lose  the  thread  of  life.  Who 
conquers  mind  and  makes  it  servant  to  the 
Will  —  he  hath  conquered  death. 

ALESSANDRO.  'Tis  at  this  door  I  knock.  That 
gulf  of  passing  consciousness  I'd  bridge,  and  live 
with  those  high  souls  who  keep  the  knowledge  of 
the  Way  of  Things  from  time's  corrupting  hand. 

TEACHER.  The  fire  shall  test  thee  — fire  that 
runs  from  youth's  red  blaze  of  passion  to  fiercest 
flames  of  white. 

ALESSANDRO.  Men  have  worshipped  fire. 

TEACHER.  And  still  do  worship  it.  But  few 
have  sought  the  heart  of  fire.  Men  live  in  the 
flame  and  the  flame  consumes. 

ALESSANDRO.  Fire  —  vibration  — 

TEACHER.  Vibration  is  but  the  flame.  Wouldst 
reach  the  heart  beyond  the  flame? 

ALESSANDRO.  It  is  the  goal  for  which  I  search. 
Have  I  lagged,  father,  when  thou  hast  led? 

TEACHER.  Not  so,  my  son.  'Tis  time  that  thou 
shouldst  lead  ....  And  the  way  is  dark  — 

ALESSANDRO.  But  I  shall  have  thy  hand  to 
grasp  — 


THE  FIRST  ACT  21 

TEACHER.  Not  so.  ...  We  part. 

ALESSANDRO.  Say  you  we  must  part? 

TEACHER.  'Tis  so;  for  none  may  lean  or  fol 
low  on  the  Way,  but  each  must  find  it  for  him 
self  —  alone. 

ALESSANDRO.  I  yet  shall  have  the  light  of  thy 
guidance.  The  years  I've  sat  to  thy  hand,  the 
wisdom  fallen  from  thy  lips  shall  light  the  Way 
for  me. 

TEACHER.  Yet  shall  the  Way  be  dark,  my  son, 
all  dark,  save  for  the  Light  Within.  All  outward 
fire  is  but  the  test.  The  light  that  guides  shines 
from  the  heart  —  the  light  that  links  the  outer 
form  with  the  lasting  man,  the  fleeting  with  the 
Real ;  this  Light  alone  can  lead. 

ALESSANDRO.  I  have  no  fear,  father. 

TEACHER.  And  when  the  Way  is  darkest,  say 
to  thyself,  "  I  have  no  fear."  To  those  who  have 
no  fear  no  harm  can  come. 

ALESSANDRO.  Than  fear,  is  there  no  other 
danger  ? 

TEACHER.  None.  But  thou  shalt  meet  delays. 
None  shall  escape  the  Wheel  of  Rebirth,  nor 


22  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

reach  to  Nature's  Inmost  secrets  and  pay  but 
half  the  price. 

ALESSANDRO.  I'll  not  complain. 
TEACHER.  I  believe  thee.  For  ten  years  hast 
thou  lived  well  the  life,  and  earned  thy  every 
step.  Has  the  path  seemed  long? 

ALESSANDRO.  I  have  not  measured  time.  I 
came  to  you  when  days  were  dark,  and  wild 
emotions  tore  the  flesh.  Wrenched  from  a  soul 
that  was  to  me  life's  counterpart,  these  silent 
chambers  gave  me  peace.  I  bowed  —  and  ceased 
to  feel.  The  flesh  I  have  not  conquered,  but  for 
got,  and  you  have  opened  fairer  visions  to  my 
inner  sight  than  I  had  known  could  be.  For  ev 
ery  rose  of  life  I've  scorned  a  fairer  bloom  I've 
found. 

TEACHER.  And  spilled  the  withered  flowers  in 
reaching  for  the  new.  Thou  hast  learned  that  the 
way  of  form  is  change. 

ALESSANDRO.  But  I  have  not  forgotten  the  es 
sence  of  the  Rose  that  thralled  my  soul  and 
senses.  Why  was  it  torn  away? 

TEACHER.  Life's  test  to  sift  the  real  from  the 


THE  FIRST  ACT  23 

fleeting  —  the  essence  from  the  bloom,  the  spirit 
from  the  form.  Men  rage  because  the  way  of  life 
is  thus  and  so,  because  they  may  not  woo  the 
form  and  win  the  essence  —  nor  eat  their  sweets 
and  have  them. 

AivESSANDRO.  I  have  sought  the  essence. 

TEACHER.  And  thou  shalt  find.  It  will  bloom 
for  thee  anew.  Joy  comes  in  cycles.  What  has 
been  will  be  again.  Cycles  of  heat  and  cold  and 
joy  and  pain  now  rule  man's  life,  till  he  shall 
learn  to  fix  his  heart  on  that  which  changes  less ; 
till  he  shall  learn  to  welcome  joy  and  turn  deaf 
ear  to  grief's  commotion.  But  thou,  Alessandro, 
hast  not  set  heart  upon  the  Bowl  of  her  you 
lost  —  or  this  fine  flame  would  register  thy  pulse- 
beats  and  turn  to  rose  or  sodden  red. 

ALESSANDRO.  I  drank  a  deeper  draft  than  lips 
of  flesh  may  taste.  I  asked  of  life — perhaps  too 
much. 

TEACHER.  None  ask  too  much,  and  many  ask 
too  little,  content  with  husks  and  flowers  that 
wither  ere  they  be  fairly  plucked.  But  thou  shalt 
drink  again.  There  comes  a  time  —  when  man's 


24  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

return  to  Cosmic  Night  begins  and  souls  do 
blend  again  —  when  separated  Rays  unite,  and 
each  soul  finds  its  counterpart. 

ALESSANDRO.  That  time!  —  is  long  — 

TEACHER.  There  is  no  time. 

ALESSANDRO.  No  time? 

TEACHER.  'Tis  all  an  everlasting  Now.  At 
heart  of  Nature  there's  no  measuring  of  hours. 
Time's  at  the  rim  of  life,  and  all  that  was  or 
shall  be  lies  focused  at  the  core  of  Things.  Time 
measures  flesh.  But  now  I  go  —  farewell! 

ALESSANDRO.  My  guide,  my  friend  —  oh !  more 
than  father  you  have  been  to  me.  And  shall  we 
meet  again? 

TEACHER.  Beyond  all  doubt.  Such  bond  as 
ours  is  not  so  lightly  broken.  When  the  White 
Flame  beams  upon  thee,  it  shall  reveal  my  out 
stretched  hand.  I  go.  Thy  test,  the  flame  —  may 
it  waver  not. 

ALESSANDRO.  Farewell,  beloved  teacher.  I'll 
hail  thee  soon. 

TEACHER.  In  the  White  Flame  we  meet. 

They  part.  Exit  TEACHER 


THE  FIRST  ACT  25 

ALESSANDRO  (slowly  and  meditatively  going 
to  couch  upon  which  he  rests,  gathering  poise 
before  essaying  to  enter  the  chamber  of  the 
White  Flame).  I'm  calm.  My  mind  obeys  the 
will.  .  .  .  The  flame  burns  steadily.  Peace  is  with 
me.  What  knowledge  waits  within?  .  .  .  I'll  go. 
(Half  rising  —  chant  of  woman's  voice  is  heard.) 
That  voice !  I've  heard  it  in  the  deeps  of  silence, 
in  night's  profoundest  hours  —  and  learned  to 
drive  it  'neath  the  pulsing  flesh  v  and  all  its  vast 
emotions.  'Tis  a  sound  beyond  these  ears  to  hear, 
a  chord  that  vibrates  in  a  subtler  world  than  this. 
I've  felt  its  strength.  Its  cadences  now  guide  my 
steps  to  the  Portal.  (Rises,  abstractedly  —  chant 
ing  grows  stronger  —  he  walks  sloivly  toward 
the  Altar,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  portal  of  the 
White  Flame.)  The  peace  and  the  strength  of 
our  love,  Judith !  ( Woman  enters  from  right, 
veiled — advances  softly  toward  Altar.  He  ad 
vances  slowly,  not  seeing  her.  Chanting  has 
ceased.  Unconsciously  they  approach  each  other.) 
I  walk  as  on  air.  Her  spirit  leads  me.  Judith. 

They  are  now  quite  close  and  feel  the  presence 


26  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

of  each  other,  though  her  gaze  is  fixed  intently 
upon  the  Altar  and  he  sees  only  the  White  Flame. 
Both  pause. 

ALESSANDRO  (now  turns).  Ah!  ...  (softly) 
Judith!  .  .  . 

JUDITH.  I  am  Judith  (throws  aside  veil). 

ALESSANDRO.  And  here!  What  tricks,  what 
luring  dreams  of  paradise  and  glory,  do  the 
senses  lay  before  me  now? 

JUDITH.  Alessandro!  It  is  a  vision,  but  fairer 
than  I'd  ever  hoped  to  see  with  eyes  of  flesh! 

ALESSANDRO.  'Tis  she!  Judith!  my  life! 

JUDITH.  O,  what  strange  joy  is  this?  Can 
dead  men  walk  in  holy  places? 

ALESSANDRO.  Judith,  the  breath  of  life  is  in 
me.  Our  love  —  ah,  this  is  all  a  dream,  I  think: 
then  let  us  dream  it  out! 

JUDITH.  And  pray  to  wake  no  more.  .  .  .  No, 
no,  you  must  not  touch  me.  I'm  sacred  to  the 
flame;  my  life  is  sworn  to  chastity.  I  could  not 
bear  your  touch. 

ALESSANDRO.  Tis  but  a  dream,  Judith,  a  mid 
night  charm  of  heavenly  fancy.  We'll  waken 


THE  FIRST  ACT  27 

soon  enough.  Let's  lose  no  instant  of  its  joy,  but 
treasure  with  a  miser's  care  each  faintest  throb. 
Eternity  were  not  full  pay  for  instants  of  thy 
love!  Judith,  hast  thou  forgotten? 

Altar  flame  wavers  and  slowly  turns  to  gold, 
diffusing  the  room  with  golden  light. 

JUDITH.  Forgot!  Alessandro!  thee  —  forgot? 
When  earth  forgets  the  sun  —  and  roses  drink 
no  morning  dew  —  thy  kisses  I'll  forget!  .  .  . 
Yet,  am  I  sacred  to  the  flame,  my  life's  fore 
sworn.  I  must  not  dream !  .  .  .  And  you  —  ? 

ALESSANDRO.  I  seek  the  Way  of  Light  — 
and  —  sweet  God!  I've  found  it  in  your  eyes! 
Worlds  were  between  us  —  I  thought  thee  dead. 
It  was  a  lie  to  part  us,  a  trick  of  life  to  make  me 
earn  you ! 

Both  irresolute.  He  clasps  her.  She  struggles 
faintly.  Altar  light  turns  to  pale  rose  —  light  in 
room  grows  dim.  He  bears  her  to  couch. 

JUDITH.  They  told  me  you  were  slain  in  the 
war.  .  .  .  No,  no,  this  must  not  be !  The  flame  —  I 

ALESSANDRO.  It  is!  I  only  know  it  is!  And 
were  there  worlds  of  glory  slipping  from  my 


28  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

grasp,  in  thy  dear  eyes  are  fairer  worlds! 

The  rose  tint  of  the  Altar  Flame  deepens.  The 
White  Light  fading. 

JUDITH.  The  flame  —  it  darkens  !  Ah !  a  bright 
er  light  I  see!  But  thou  —  one  kiss!  .  .  .  Oh, 
leave  me  now.  I'll  follow  thee  to  other  worlds 
than  flesh;  when  our  two  souls  may  blend.  My 
light  —  and  life!  .  .  .  Go,  while  yet  the  White 
Flame  burns! 

ALESSANDRO.  There  is  no  whiter  light  than  thy 
pure  soul,  and  in  its  glow  my  spirit  shall  be 
wrapt ! 

IV hit e  light  over  portal  expires  —  room  is  in 
darkness  save  for  deepening  rose  glow  of  Altar 
light. 

JUDITH.  Alessandro,  my  heart! 

ALESSANDRO.  Judith!  there  is  no  light  but  you ! 

The  rose  hue  of  the  Altar  light  deepens  as  the 
Curtain  descends. 

END  OF  FIRST  ACT 


The  Second  Act 


ACT  TWO 
THE 


The  Time  is  modern. 

The  Scene  is  in  the  Egyptian  room  of  a  luxurious 
home  whose  hostess,  MRS.  MERTON-BLAKE,  is  a  famous 
collector  of  Egyptian  relics. 

The  stage  is  set  as  in  Act  I,  except  that  to  left,  in 
place  of  the  garlanded  couch,  are  several  tiers  of 
chairs  reaching  back  into  a  smaller  room  that  lends 
itself  on  occasion,  in  connection  with  the  Egyptian 
room,  to  an  assembly  hall  in  which  MRS.  BLAKE  is 
wont  to  entertain  her  friends  with  parlor  talks  by 
notable  persons  of  advanced  ideas. 

There  has  just  been  such  a  gathering  to  hear  an 
address  on  Reincarnation  by  ALEXANDER  RELTON,  and 
as  the  curtain  rises  MRS.  BLAKE  is  bidding  adieu  to  a 
few  belated  auditors. 

In  the  room  also  are  JANET  HARDS,  spinster, 
spectacled,  usually  knitting,  confirmed  materialist, 
companion  of  MRS.  BLAKE,  familiarly  known  and  loved 
by  everybody  —  wearing  a  gauze-like  shawl  that  re 
sembles  the  veil  of  Judith's  in  Act  I;  and  DR.  PLOD- 


32  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

INGER,  who  has  come  to  think  that  Reincarnation  ex 
plains  Things. 

On  the  Altar,  as  in  Act  I,  is  a  Blue  Flame  giving 
its  tone  to  the  light  of  the  room,  and  over  the  impos 
ing  entrance  back  of  the  Altar  is  the  same  strong 
White  Light. 

The  lights  do  not  waver  or  change  as  in  Act  I, 
being  merely  replicas  of  the  ancient  symbols. 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (shaking  hands  with  several  de 
parting  guests).  I'm  so  sorry  things  turned  out 
as  they  did. 

GUEST.  We  enjoyed  your  discourse  very  much, 

Mrs.  Blake. 

2d  GUEST.  Yes,  indeed  —  perhaps  as  much  as 
we  should  have  enjoyed  hearing  Mr.  Relton. 

3d  GuEST.  How  unfortunate  that  he  should 
have  been  taken  ill  so  suddenly. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  I  regret  it  exceedingly,  friends, 
I  assure  you,  and  I  know  Mr.  Relton  is  greatly 
distressed  over  his  failure  this  evening. 

A  GUEST  (as  they  are  going  out).  I  am  sure 
we  all  wish  him  a  speedy  recovery. 

Following  departure  of  Guests  servants  slowly 
and  noiselessly  remove  chairs  and  place  a  couch 


THE  SECOND  ACT  33 

left,  making  the  room  still  further  resemble  itself 
in  Act.  I. 

DOCTOR.  He  was  not  physically  ill,  I  think, 
Mrs.  Blake? 

JANET.  Too  much  head  work. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  No,  he  was  not  physically  ill, 
doctor  —  nor  is  his  trouble  mental,  as  you  sup 
pose,  Janet. 

JANET.  Is  this  more  mystics,  Sara? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  You  may  call  it  that,  or  any 
thing.  Names  don't  count.  But  I  must  tell  you 
about  Alexander.  You  saw  him  turn  pale  as  he 
looked  about  in  this  room  — 

DOCTOR.  Why,  he  staggered  —  almost  fell  as 
he  stood  before  this  ghostly  relic. 

JANET.  And  he  left  your  assembly  without  a 
word  —  almost  rude,  I  thought  —  but  he  is  a 
good  sort  at  heart,  I  am  sure,  Sara? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Doctor  —  Janet  —  I  have  a  sus 
picion —  but  let  me  think  it  out  a  little  first. 
(Observes  that  servants  have  finished  arranging 
room.)  There,  as  the  room  is  now  arranged,  it 
almost  exactly  duplicates  the  chamber  in  the 


34  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

Pyramid  from  which  these  relics  were  taken. 

JANET.  How  do  you  know  that,  Sara? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  I  was  there  with  the  exploring 
party,  my  dear,  and  we  took  a  flashlight  of  the 
room  before  dismantling  it. 

DOCTOR.  And  these  lights —  ? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  One  doesn't  study  these  things 
for  years  without  learning  something.  They  com 
plete  the  picture  now,  but  for  the  ancients  they 
played  deeply  significant  parts  and  were  of  prac 
tical  use.  .  .  .  Now,  I  am  wondering  .  .  .  could 
Alexander  have  seen  this  altar  and  its  light  — 
this  very  room  —  before? 

DOCTOR.  How  impossible,  since  he  has  only 
just  returned  from  his  long  visit  to  India,  and 
you  have  had  these  relics  but  a  few  weeks. 

JANET.  Why,  what  are  you  thinking  of,  Sara? 
You  didn't  even  have  an  Egyptian  room  when 
Mr.  Relton  lived  here. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Oh,  I  mean  —  yes,  you  are  go 
ing  to  laugh  at  me  —  I  mean  could  he  have  seen 
them  in  times  past,  in  other  ages  —  but  there,  I 
have  said  so  much,  I  must  say  more. 


THE  SECOND  ACT  35 

DOCTOR.  Do,  by  all  means.  I  will  try  to  keep 
Janet  quiet,  and  I  —  well,  I  have  ceased  to  laugh 
at  things  merely  because  they  are  outside  my  ex 
perience. 

JANET.  You  can't  laugh;  you're  too  old.  But 
I'll  be  still.  Tell  us,  Sara. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Alexander's  mother  married  a 
New  Yorker  who  spent  much  of  his  time  in  In 
dia —  had  an  estate,  or  something,  at  Adyar. 
Alexander  was  born,  and  his  father  died  there. 

DOCTOR.  Was  the  son  educated  in  India? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Partly  there,  and  partly  in  this 
country.  His  mother  was  my  distant  cousin,  but 
closest  friend.  When  she  came  to  live  here  with 
me,  in  the  early  days  of  her  widowhood,  our  old 
time  friendship  grew  more  intimate.  Now  come 
close  and  listen :  Alexander  was  a  peculiar  child. 
He  had  visions  and  such.  All  through  his  boy 
hood  he  talked  of  strange  things,  of  things  he 
had  seen  and  known  before  he  was  born. 

JANET.  Umph!  He  needed  exercise. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  And  in  his  wandering  talks  he 
often  spoke  the  name  of  a  woman  or  girl  —  Ju- 


36  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

dith,  I  think  it  was  —  whom  he  sought  as  a  play 
mate.  His  poor  mother  worried  over  this  a  great 
deal,  but  his  father,  who  was  a  student  of  the 
Eastern  philosophies,  rather  encouraged  the  boy, 
and  said  his  vagaries  were  the  dim  recollections 
of  past  incarnations,  the  memory  of  events  and 
experiences  of  former  lives. 

JANET.  Poor  woman  —  husband  and  son  both 
crazy ! 

DOCTOR.  Oh,  not  so  crazy,  perhaps.  Anyway, 
Janet,  I  promised  that  you  would  keep  still. 

JANET.  But  I  can't  when  such  folly  is  taken 
so  seriously. 

DOCTOR.  I  don't  see  much  folly  in  this.  Such 
things  do  happen.  I  have  met  similar  cases  in 
my  practice. 

JANET.  What  did  you  prescribe  —  belladonna, 
or  morphine? 

DOCTOR.  I  listened  and  tried  to  learn  some 
thing. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Now,  Janet. 

JANET.  Oh,  I'm  all  attention.  It  really  is  in 
teresting. 


THE  SECOND  ACT  37 

DOCTOR.  Do  you  mean  to  connect  these  child 
hood  visions  with  the  occurrence  of  this  evening, 
Mrs.  Blake  — his  all  but  fainting  as  he  entered 
this  strange,  weird  room  of  yours? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Of  course,  Doctor,  I  am  only 
guessing.  Suppose  this  room  and  its  ancient 
trappings  suggested  a  former  and  a  similar  scene 
to  him.  This  room  just  as  it  is  now  furnished 
was  an  Inner  Chamber  of  a  school  of  life  and 
philosophy.  The  mysteries  of  life  and  death,  the 
plan  of  nature,  and  the  course  of  evolution  were 
taught  in  these  secret  halls  of  the  Pyramids. 

DOCTOR.  There  were  great  Adepts  in  those 
days,  it  is  said. 

JANET.  What  is  that,  Doctor  —  an  Adept? 

DOCTOR.  One  who  has  kept  still  and  listened 
for  a  good  many  ages,  until  he  has  learned  a 
great  deal  more  than  some  noisy  people  ever  will. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Don't  be  so  hard  on  Janet,  Doc 
tor. 

DOCTOR.  I  feel  responsible  for  her.  All  her 
materialism  she  imbibed  out  of  the  books  I  am 
now  regretful  of  having  written. 


38  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

JANET.  The  conceit! 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Some  of  us  learn  as  we  grow 
older. 

JANET.  Umph.  They  need  to. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  I  think  even  Janet  could  learn 
from  Alexander  Relton.  He  has  made  the  sub 
ject  of  Reincarnation  a  life  study,  and  the  rea 
sonable  and  simple  way  in  which  he  presents  it 
is  very  convincing.  There,  that's  his  footstep. 
(Enter  ALEXANDER,  averting  his  gaze  from  al 
tar.)  I'm  so  glad  you  feel  well  enough  to  rejoin 
us,  dea — (correcting  herself  —  but  JANET  no 
tices)  —  to  rejoin  us,  Alexander. 

ALEXANDER.  Oh,  I  wasn't  ill,  dear  Mrs. 
Blake  —  and  Miss  Hards  —  Doctor  (bowing  to 
them,  taking  hostess*  hands  frankly). 

DOCTOR.  Not  seriously,  at  any  rate,  I  hope. 

ALEXANDER.  An  emotional  derangement,  I 
should  call  it,  Doctor.  And  I  am  heartily  ashamed 
of  it.  (Looks  fearlessly  toward  Altar,  but  qua 
vers  a  little.)  I  feel  that  I  owe  you  all  a  sincere 
apology.  It  was  a  weak,  childish  thing.  I  can 
scarcely  understand  my  own  weakness,  and  cer 
tainly  not  excuse  it. 


THE  SECOND  ACT  39 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (significantly).  It  was  something 
far  stronger  than  a  passing  emotion,  Alexander. 
Come,  tell  us  about  it.  We  are  all  comrades  here. 

ALEXANDER.  No,  seriously,  Mrs.  Blake,  I  can't 
explain  it  any  other  way  than  as  emotional  — 
well,  shall  I  say,  insanity? 

DOCTOR.  With  the  same  seriousness  and  frank 
ness,  Alexander,  I  should  not  call  it  insanity. 

ALEXANDER.  But  my  mental  processes  were 
entirely  inactive.  Indeed,  that  was  my  fault.  The 
mind  should  have  been  held  to  its  post  of  duty. 
When  the  mind  is  lax  all  sorts  of  curious  things 
creep  into  one's  life. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  But  there  are  things  —  forces, 
events,  beyond  the  control  of  the  mind,  Alexan 
der,  are  there  not? 

ALEXANDER.  Undoubtedly,  as  you  women  know 
better  than  men,  but  I  am  skeptical  of  my  own 
present  power  to  reach  them.  We  live  in  an  in 
tellectual  age.  We  worship  reason,  and  I  think 
we  must  prove  all  our  knowledge  by  reason. 

Mrs.  BLAKE,  But  your  experience  when  you 
first  entered  this  room  —  Is  it  painful  for  me  to 
recall  it? 


40  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

ALEXANDER.  I  have  scarcely  tried  to  account 
for  it  on  other  than  emotional  grounds.  I  have 
no  other  clew  —  the  blue  air  here,  the  strange  yet 
familiar  room  —  the  dreaminess  of  the  scene  as 
I  first  entered  —  it  stirred  deeply  —  I  had  seen  it 
before  —  oh,  what  do  I  say?  —  I  don't  know  — 
I  haven't  reasoned  it  out  yet  —  I  am  not  reason 
ably  sure  of  anything,  sometimes. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Nor  will  reason  alone  ever  en 
able  you  to  be  sure  of  anything,  Alexander. 

DOCTOR.  It  rather  proves  things  to  us,  I  think. 
I  would  certainly  repel  any  idea  or  feeling  that 
I  could  not  rationalize. 

ALEXANDER.  That  is  the  way  I  feel  about  Re 
incarnation,  Doctor.  Personal  experience  and  in 
tuitions  are  valueless  as  proof  save  to  the  indi 
vidual  who  may  have  experienced  them,  and  in 
my  own  case,  at  least,  I  distrust  them  all  unless 
I  can  rationalize  them. 

JANET.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  can  ration 
alize  this  idea  of  Reincarnation,  do  you,  now? 

DOCTOR.  She  was  quiet  for  a  long  while. 

ALEXANDER.  If  I  could  not  reason  it  out  step 
by  step  I  certainly  would  not  advocate  it  as  a 


THE  SECOND  ACT  41 

solution  of  the  problems  of  life,  however  much  I 
might  privately  hold  to  it. 

DOCTOR.  Nothing  else  seems  to  explain  life. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Life  is  but  a  hideous  nightmare 
for  the  millions  if  Reincarnation  is  not  true.  O, 
when  I  think  of  its  terrible  inequalities,  its 
crimes,  its  prisons,  its  slums,  and  its  palaces  — 

JANET.  You  are  ready  to  take  wings  and  fly 
away  with  your  Reincarnation  notions. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  It  is  you  materialists  who  would 
fly  from  the  world  and  its  troubles,  instead  of 
remaining  here  and  helping  to  right  them.  You 
and  the  Christians  propose  to  go  away  from  earth 
for  ever  at  the  end  of  seventy  years  or  so. 

DOCTOR.  Yes.  The  Christian  spends  his  eter 
nity  in  heaven  or  in  hell,  and  the  materialist 
spends  his  in  the  dreamless  sleep  of  the  grave. 

ALEXANDER.  Both  ideas  are  essentially  the 
same.  Modern  materialism  echoes  the  old  Chris 
tian  theology  in  declaring  that  man  is  only  a 
transient  guest  on  this  earth,  that  he  comes  here 
at  birth,  remains  for  a  few  years,  and  then  goes 
away  for  ever. 


42  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

DOCTOR.  And  that  is  why  earth  is  the  hell  of 
turmoil  and  misery  that  it  is.  Man's  treasures 
are  laid  away  somewhere  else,  and  where  his 
treasures  are  there  is  his  heart. 

ALEXANDER.  When  the  rational  side  of  Rein 
carnation  is  thoroughly  understood  by  you  social 
reformers  (to  JANET)  and  men  realize  that  this 
earth  is  their  permanent  home  for  many,  many 
ages,  then  we  will  see  more  serious  and  united 
efforts  made  toward  bettering  its  conditions. 
Paradise  is  not  entirely  a  dream,  but  a  true  sym 
bol  of  a  social  state  that  shall  one  day  exist  on 
this  earth  — 

JANET,  who  has  been  bending  over  her  knit 
ting,  shrugs  her  shoulders  derisively  —  then  be 
comes  interested,  sits  back  and  raises  her  glasses 
above  her  eyes. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  When  the  heart  and  mind  are 
really  focussed  upon  this  earth,  instead  of  some 
distant  sphere. 

JANET.  Oh,  shucks!  children.  When  you're 
dead  you're  dead  all  over.  I've  seen  many  a 
corpse.  .  .  .  Where  did  I  put  my  glasses? 


THE  SECOND  ACT  43 

(searching  for  spectacles.)  Now,  if  we  have 
lived  before  why  don't  we  remember  it? 

DOCTOR  (taking  glasses  from  her  forehead 
and  handing  them  to  her) .  Here  are  your  glasses, 
Janet,  and  here  is  the  answer  to  your  question 
why  we  don't  remember.  Why  didn't  you  re 
member  where  you  put  your  glasses? 

JANET.  I  was  thinking  of  a  man,  I  suppose. 
You  were  talking.  Tell  me,  why  didn't  I  remem 
ber? 

DOCTOR.  Because  your  mind  was  on  something 
else.  We  remember  that  upon  which  the  mind  is 
centered.  We  don't  recall  our  former  lives  be 
cause  from  infancy  our  minds  are  centered  upon 
the  petty  details  of  this  life. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Well,  I  think  some  people  re 
member  some  things  (with  a  glance  to  Alexan 
der). 

ALEXANDER.  It  may  be,  Mrs.  Blake;  but  it  is 
improbable  in  our  materialistic  times,  and  cer 
tainly  unreliable  as  proof  of  the  fact  of  Reincar 
nation. 

DOCTOR.  But  you  don't  deny  the  possibility? 


44  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

ALEXANDER.  No ;  many  improbable  things  hap 
pen  continually. 

DOCTOR.  Or  that  two  people  could  recognize 
each  other,  from  some  strong  attachment  in  a 
former  life —  ? 

ALEXANDER.  Why,  nothing  is  impossible.  But 
they  would  hardly  recognize  each  other  from  any 
physical  recollection,  for  surely  the  bodies  in 
which  they  reside  must  be  greatly  dissimilar  to 
those  of  a  previous  life. 

DOCTOR.  Well,  not  so  greatly,  perhaps.  There 
would  be  characteristics,  even  mannerisms,  car 
ried  over  —  and  then  such  a  recognition,  if  it  oc 
curred,  would  not  be  physical.  We  feel  each 
other.  We  instinctively  like  or  dislike  this  or  that 
person  we  meet  for  the  first  time. 

ALEXANDER  (speaking  rather  abruptly).  Oh, 
if  an  attachment  in  one  life  were  founded  on 
something  more  than  a  surface  affection.  If  a 
love  or  a  friendship  were  much  deeper  than  the 
physical,  if  it  existed  on  a  more  lasting  plane 
than  that  of  sensation  —  affection,  or  emotion  — 
if  it  were  rooted  in  the  reincarnating  natures  of 


THE  SECOND  ACT  45 

them  —  if  it  were  a  friendship  or  a  love  of  the 
soul  —  why,  it  would  carry  over.  It  does,  I  am 
sure.  And  no  doubt  we  in  this  room  are  drawn 
together  by  some  such  pre-existing  bond. 

JANET.  How  delightful !  Then  we  are  all  soul 
affinities. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Horrors !  I  hope  not  —  not  since 
the  newspapers  have  got  hold  of  the  word  and 
degraded  a  term  that  really  was  expressive  of 
something  more  than  a  physical  passion. 

ALEXANDER.  Well,  I  am  going  back  to  the 
library  now,  good  people.  I  only  came  down 
stairs  because  I  felt  I  owed  you  all  an  apology 
for  my  rudeness. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  We  knew  it  was  unintentional, 
Alexander. 

DOCTOR.  I'll  go  with  you,  old  man.  Au  revoir, 
ladies. 

As  the  two  men  go  out  ALEXANDER  deliber 
ately  stares  at  Altar,  hesitates  a  moment  —  is  al 
most  overcome  —  controls  himself,  and  goes 
slowly  out  after  DOCTOR. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  There's  something  very  deep  in 


46  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

all  this,  Janet.  Alexander  is  mentally  a  very 
strong  man.  I  wish  I  could  remember  more  of 
his  youthful  wanderings  .  .  .  (softly)  this  Ju 
dith! 

JANET.  Oh,  you  remember  enough  of  them, 
dear.  Come  back  to  earth  now.  He  looks  much 
better  and  stronger  since  his  return.  And  he's 
so  convincing  in  his  manner  —  I  could  almost 
believe  him.  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  Sara,  dear  (put 
ting  arms  about  her),  there  are  times  when  I 
think  you  are  almost  sane! 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Janet,  you're  going  to  say  some 
thing  that  you  ought  n't  to. 

JANET.  I'm  going  to  say  that  you  are  in  love 
with  Alexander,  and  — 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (unconvincingly).  Why,  Janet, 
how  absurd. 

JANET.  And  you  are  not  to  deny  it  —  to  me, 
dear,  because  I  know. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Why,  I'm  almost  as  old  as  his 
mother  would  have  been! 

JANET.  And  you  would  like  to  remember  your 
self  ~as  his  mythical  "  Judith  "  —  and  you  would 


THE  SECOND  ACT  47 

have  done  so  long  ago  if  you  were  not  so  dis 
tressingly  honest  with  yourself. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  You're  imagining  things,  dear. 

JANET.  No,  I'm  a  sign  reader  —  that's  all. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Isn't  he  fine? 

JANET.  If  I  were  silly  like  some  people  I  think 
I  could  fall  in  love  with  him  myself.  And  if  I 
did,  do  you  know  what  I'd  do? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  No;  tell  me. 

JANET.  I'd  just  go  and  get  him.  He's  help 
less.  Every  man  is. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Don't  say  any  more,  dear.  Let 
me  dream  a  bit. 

JANET.  I  wonder  why  Julia  was  not  here  this 
afternoon.  She  is  far  too  sensible  to  take  all  this 
kind  of  talk  seriously. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  What  kind  of  talk,  Janet? 

JANET.  Oh,  all  this  talk  about  leaving  one's 
body  instead  of  just  calmly  dying  in  the  good 
old-fashioned  way. 

Enter  JULIA  LISTON.  She  stops  at  threshold 
to  throw  aside  wrappings  .  .  .  stares  as  one 
dosed.  Tries  to  speak  and  cannot. 


48  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Oh,  there  you  are.  You  are  al 
most  late,  Julia. 

JUUA.  O  —  I — (faints:  is  carried  to  lounge 
at  left.  Recovers  quickly,  but  talks  wanderingly) . 
I  thought  you  dead,  Alessandro.  .  .  .  leave 
me.  ...  I  am  wedded  to  the  flame.  O!  .  .  . 
this  is  still  the  dream  —  Alessandro!  (mild  hys 
terics  for  a  moment  —  then  calms  and  completely 
responds  to  the  ministration  of  the  two  ladies.) 

Mrs.   BLAKE.  Whatever  is  the  matter,  dear? 

JULIA.  Just  a  sudden  dizziness,  I  think. 

JANET.  No  such  thing.  It's  that  old  Altar  and 
these  queer  trappings  here.  They're  enough  to 
give  anyone  the  willies. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Janet! 

JANET.  Oh,  they  are.  And  you  are  not  the 
first  to  see  them  and  then  go  into  — 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Now,  Janet,  be  still! 

JULIA.  I  am  tired  —  may  I  go  and  lie  down  a 
bit? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Indeed  you  must,  dear.  Dinner 
won't  be  ready  for  an  hour  yet.  Janet,  please, 
you  take  her  upstairs  (to  JANET  aside),  and  not 


THE  SECOND  ACT  49 

a  word  of  this  afternoon.  Keep  her  mind  off  the 
subject 

JANET.  You  dear  thing;  come  along  now.  It's 
just  a  rest  you  want  before  dinner.  ( Throws  her 
shawl  over  JULIA.) 

JUUA  (quite  weak,  but  smiling').  I  feel  as  if 
I  could  never  want  to  eat  again.  You  know  I 
walked  so  much  today.  I  am  quite  weak  (evi 
dently  unwilling  to  admit  the  real  cause  of  her 
faintness.)  Both  exit. 

Mrs.  BLAKE:.  What  does  this  all  mean?  I  seem 
to  be  on  the  verge  of  a  precipice  down  which  my 
entire  household  is  to  topple  .  .  .  Julia  thus  af 
fected  by  these  relics!  What  can  it  mean?  Oh, 
I  am  the  most  unfortunate  of  women  to  be  the 
innocent  cause  of  so  much  distress  .  .  .  Can  it 
be?  ...  She  and  Alexander!  .  .  .  No,  no  — 
that  is  romance  .  .  .  possibility,  not  realization 
in  our  prosaic  lives.  Because  a  thing  might  hap 
pen  —  because  I  know  that  loves  and  friendships 
do  outlast  this  Longer  Sleep  we  call  death  .  .  . 
Is  she?  .  .  .  they  two!  .  .  .  then  —  is  my  — 
dream  over?  (Enter  JANET)  Her  strange  words 


50  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

— -"  I  am  wed  to  the  Light—-" 

JANET.  It's  a  Red  Light  that  she  is  wed  to, 
I'll  be  bound. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  What  do  you  mean,  Janet? 

JANET.  Just  about  what  I  said,  Sara.  A  shin 
ing  light  in  the  Red  Light  district  —  if  the  half 
they  say  of  him  be  only  half  true. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Oh,  you  mustn't  say  such  things, 
Janet. 

JANET.  Of  course  I  don't,  only  to  you,  Sara. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  It  is  not  for  you  or  me  to  judge. 

JANET.  Oh,  I  don't  know  —  don't  know.  If 
it  is  for  her  to  bear,  it  is  for  me  to  speak  my 
mind  about  it. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  But  not  too  loud  —  the  serv 
ants — 

JANET.  Shucks!  There  isn't  a  servant  on  the 
avenue  that  doesn't  know  all  about  it.  Why 
doesn't  she  get  a  divorce? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  The  publicity  —  the  newspapers 
—  the  scandal  of  it  all !  And  only  a  few  years 
ago  it  was  a  love  match.  He  was  so  devoted;  a 
little  wild  —  but,  oh,  what  the  years  do  bring! 


THE  SECOND  ACT  51 

.  They  were  soul  affinities  —  I  guess 
not.  She'd  better  brave  the  scandal  and  publicity 
and  have  done  with  it  all.  I'd  show  him  if  I  were 
in  her  shoes. 

Mrs.  BI^AKE.  But  Julia  is  a  woman,  dear  — 
just  a  woman,  a  woman  clear  through.  You  and 
I  are  part  men,  I  sometimes  think.  At  any  rate 
we  have  the  masculine  attitude  of  mind.  We  can 
go  out  and  fight  our  way  in  the  world.  Julia  is 
different.  She  would  rather  relinquish  it. 

JANET.  And  she  runs  a  good  chance  of  doing 
it,  at  this  rate.  Whatever  can  be  the  matter  with 
her?  She's  completely  upset  by  this  room  and  its 
outlandish  trappings. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Could  it  be  that  this  scene  awak 
ens  ancient  memories  in  her,  too?  Janet,  dear, 
life  has  some  order  and  meaning,  even  to  you, 
hasn't  it?  It  isn't  all  but  a  jumble  of  coinci 
dences —  is  it? 

JANET.  Oh,  I'm  almost  ready  to  admit  any 
thing,  Sara  —  even  a  personal  God.  I  wish  there 
was  one.  I'd  ask  him  to  be  good  to  Julia  Liston. 
She's  the  mustard,  now,  isn't  she? 


52  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Where  do  you  get  your  strange 
slang,  Janet?  .  .  .  But  we  must  see  about  the 
dinner.  Come  .  .  .  Oh,  at  dinner  they  will  meet ! 

Both  exit. 

Enter  JULIA  (shawl  about  shoulders).  I  could 
not  rest  ...  I  must  see  this  place  again,  it  has 
a  strange  fascination  for  me  ...  it  draws  my  life 
back,  back  —  to  what  I  know  not  ...  This  al 
tar,  its  blue  flame !  Oh,  what  vague  but  real  pic 
tures  do  I  see!  ...  I  feel  as  though  I  were 
thousands  of  years  old  ...  as  though  I  were 
not  encumbered  with  this  body  and  its  coarse  de 
mands  .  .  .  Oh,  I  love  this  room  —  this  altar  — 
these  surroundings  (is  walking  slowly  about  Al 
tar —  looks  toward  lounge —  stops)  Ah!  (con 
fused,  amazed,  delighted  with  whole  scene  — 
finds  words  incapable  of  expressing  her  feelings. 
Involuntarily  she  puts  the  shawl  over  head  and 
stands  near  the  Altar  as  in  Act  I.) 

Enter  ALEXANDER.  I  must  see  this  room  alone. 
What  strange  emotions  it  awakens  in  me!  Are 
they  only  emotions?  Have  I  reached  no  further 
into  life  than  to  be  swayed  and  torn  by  emotions? 


THE  SECOND  ACT  53 

.  .  .  One  might  tell  himself  the  truth,  perhaps  — 
and  the  truth  is  I  have  stood  at  this  altar  before. 
Its  blue  flame  has  registered  my  calmness  .  .  . 
Yes  —  yes  —  I  recall  —  and  the  flame  wavered 
and  turned  to  rose!  .  .  .  Did  it  sputter  out,  I 
wonder?  And  the  White  Flame  .  .  .  Ah!  'twas 
only  yesterday  ...  I  have  been  asleep  —  I  have 
dreamed  .  .  .  Time,  thou  art  a  cheat.  And  Ju 
dith,  Judith  .  .  .  O,  my  Teacher,  I  can  not  en 
ter  the  White  Flame  alone!  Judith!  I  have 
searched  the  world  for  you !  —  the  White  Flame 
beckons  us.  ...  O,  this  strange  confusion  of  the 
dream!  Here  we  met  by  this  altar  (turns  to 
couch)  Judith!  —  here  we  left  the  White  Flame 
and  went  back  to  the  walks  of  men !  Judith,  you 
went  from  me  to  find  the  Grail!  .  .  .  But  we 
shall  find  it  together !  .  .  .  You  are  near  me  ... 
Judith!  (turns) 

JULIA.  I  am  Judith  —  who  calls?  (unveils) 
Alessandro ! 

ALEXANDER.  Judith!  (They  are  face  to  face, 
as  in  Act.  I.  Silence  for  a  moment.)  This  is  not 
dreaming  —  this  is  reality!  Judith,  did  we  sin? 


54  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

I  cannot  think  so  —  but  we  have  wandered  far. 

JULIA.  Alessandro,  my  life!  I  am  waking 
from  a  nightmare.  This  is  the  real. 

Both  seem  dazed  —  they  are  living  in  the  past, 
oblivious  to  the  interval  of  time. 

ALEXANDER.  Have  we  been  apart?  .  .  .  Ju 
dith,  I  have  waited  for  you  —  how  long  I  don't 
know  —  is  it  centuries  or  only  moments?  .  .  . 
These  intervening  dreams  were  interminable. 
(Takes  her  by  the  hand  and  leads  her  to  couch.) 
I  dreamed  of  Persia  —  and  you  were  there.  Oh, 
the  dreams  come  back!  In  later  Egypt  we 
walked  hand  in  hand  —  in  Athens  we  wooed  and 
wed  each  other.  .  .  .  What  dreams,  what  dreams 
come  tumbling  now  from  caverns  of  the  past! 
What  dreams  —  to  mystify  —  no,  to  explain  this 
moment.  And  our  bond  —  is  it  less  ? 

JULIA.  It  could  not  be  more,  Alessandro.  It 
is  the  same.  We  both  seek  the  White  Flame  — 
let  us  go.  (They  rise  as  if  to  go  to  door  over 
which  is  the  White  Light.) 

Enter  Mrs.  BLAKE  (in  doorway  of  White 
Flame.)  Judith  —  your  husband  is  here. 


THE  SECOND  ACT  55 

JULIA  (with  great  struggle  coming  back  to  the 
present).  My  husband!  Oh,  which  is  the  dream 
and  which  the  waking? 

ALEXANDER  (dismayed).  Judith,  did  I  hear 
aright?  Your  — 

JULIA.  Yes,  dear  .  .  .  but  don't  speak  it. 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (holding  door  open  for  ALEXAN 
DER  and  motioning  him  toward  her) .  I  could  not 
stop  him,  Julia.  He  is  tipsy  —  he  is  coming  here. 

JULIA.  No,  no;  don't  let  him  come  in  this 
room.  I  will  go. 

ALEXANDER  (about  to  pass  out  through  door 
of  White  Light,  halts)  No;  it  is  but  an  empty 
symbol  now  —  in  this  part  of  our  dream  (look 
ing  intently  at  Light),  but  I  will  not  enter  it 
alone.  (Retraces  steps  and  goes  out  through 
door  with  JULIA,  who  is  going  to  left.  They 
pause  in  doorway.  He  raises  her  hand  to  his 
lips.)  They  exit  in  opposite  directions. 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (with  bowed  head  at  Altar). 
Life's  tragedy ! 

END  OF  SECOND  ACT 


H         ,  ^ 

I  k 


The  Third  cAct 


ACT  THREE 

ADJUSTMENT 

Time  — A  few  hours  later  than  preceding  Act  — to 
ward  early  morning. 

Scene  — The  same.  As  the  Curtain  rises  the  room 
is  in  darkness  save  for  dim  light  from  a  street  lamp 
whose  rays  cross  the  hallway  in  the  rear  and  pen 
etrate  faintly  the  Egyptian  room  through  partly  drawn 
curtains  of  left  upper  entrance. 

MRS.  BLAKE  and  JUUA  enter,  both  in  dressing  gown 
and  slippers,  with  hair  loosely  arranged  as  for  the 
night.  MRS.  BLAKE  carries  a  taper  with  which  she 
ignites  the  Blue  Flame  on  the  Altar. 

JUUA'S  loosely  flowing  robes  very  closely  resemble 
those  worn  by  her  in  the  First  Act. 

Both  women  carry  a  bed  covering  with  which  MRS. 
BLAKE  proceeds  to  improvise  a  bed  for  JUUA  on  the 
couch. 


60  THE  WHITE  FLAME 


Mrs.  BLAKE  (giving  final  touches  to  impro 
vised  bed)  —  There,  my  dear,  you  will  sleep  as 
soundly,  and  dream  as  fantastically,  as  in  your 
own  room. 

JULIA  has  been  standing  silently  at  the  Altar. 

Mrs.  BLAKE  comes  and  leads  her  to  couch, 

JULIA  (sitting  on  couch).  Am  I  very  silly, 
dear,  to  want  to  sleep  in  this  room  —  just  this 
once?  In  the  morning  my  dreams  will  be  over 
and  I  shall  go  back  to  the  old  life  that  now  seems 
so  unreal  —  or  else  — 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Or  else  —  What  is  the  alterna 
tive,  my  dear? 

JULIA.  The  prince  of  my  dreams  will  come 
and  carry  me  away. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Alexander? 

JULIA.  So  runs  my  dream. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  May  all  your  dreams  come  true, 
Julia  (stroking  her  hair}.  Now  I  am  going  to 
leave  you.  Shall  I  lock  the  door? 


THE  THIRD  ACT  61 

JULIA.  Why? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  He  might  come  here. 

JULIA.  And  you  would  lock  him  out  —  and 
spoil  my  dream! 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  But  think,  dear,  this  is  impossi 
ble —  you  are  scarcely  acquainted. 

JULIA.  You  are  wrong,  Sara;  I  have  known 
him  all  my  life,  and  in  many  lives  before. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Yes,  in  other  lives ;  it  seems 
true :  but  now  —  in  this  life  .  .  .  ? 

JULIA.  He  came  to  me  out  of  the  ideal  world 
—  where  there  is  no  time,  Sara.  Though  but  an 
hour  ago  we  knew  each  other's  touch  for  the 
first  time  in  this  life,  always  have  we  known  each 
other  in  the  real  world  —  always ! 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  This  is  a  wonderful  tale,  Julia, 
wonderful  and  beautiful,  as  your  own  sweet  self 
has  always  been  to  me.  .  .  .  And  you  are  the 
woman  of  his  dreams  .  .  . 

JULIA.  His  dreams? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  I  knew  his  mother:  she  told  me 
much  . 


62  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

JUUA.  Oh,  he  has  dreamed  ...  as  I  have 
dreamed  ...  it  must  be  so,  for  we  have  been 
together  .  .  . 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Do  you  remember  him  vividly 
from  the  past,  from  a  time  that  is  really  remote, 
Julia? 

JULIA.  From  a  past  so  remote  I  cannot  calcu 
late  it  —  yet  a  past  that  seems  more  close  and 
real  than  yesterday.  In  many  times  and  nations 
we  have  been  together  in  the  Daylight  of  life, 
and  always  in  those  intervals  of  Night  that  men 
call  death.  I  have  borne  him  sons  and  daughters. 
We  have  lived  and  died  together  —  and  suffered 
and  enjoyed,  as  men  and  women  do  —  but  these 
were  incidents.  The  great  fact  of  my  life  is  the 
bond  between  us  that  nothing  has  severed,  or 
can  sever  —  not  even  time  —  nor  the  scorn  and 
coarseness  of  the  world  that  lives  by  weight  and 
measure. 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (aside).  Is  this  the  truth  of  my 
own  philosophy  —  or  a  mad  woman's  ravings  ? 

JULIA.  I  know  what  you  are  thinking,  Sara. 
The  outer  world  of  sensation  bears  heavily  even 


THE  THIRD  ACT  63 

on  you  who  have  kept  your  reason  enthroned 
without  bowing  to  the  idols  of  wood  and  stone. 
But  I  am  baring  my  inner  life  to  you  —  and  only 
telling  you  what  you  have  often  said  were  pos 
sible  and  reasonable. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  You  gave  us  no  hint  of  such 
depth  and  wealth  of  memories  in  your  life,  dear. 
I  thought  you  clever  and  deep  and  strong,  but 
practical 

JULIA.  Since  I  have  known  you  I  have  been 
dazed,  and  more  asleep  in  my  waking  hours  than 
at  night.  I  have  cared  to  talk  of  nothing  real. 
Society  taught  me  to  chatter  of  dress  and  the 
weather. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Tell  me  more  of  this  strange, 
strange  thing. 

JULIA.  It  is  not  strange,  only  as  the  heart  of 
life  is  always  strange  to  the  outer  crust.  Every 
one  has  a  hidden  life  that  is  more  real  than  the 
life  of  the  senses. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Tell  me  of  your  first  meeting, 
dear  —  if  I  don't  weary  you. 

JULIA,  I  can't  remember  so  far  back  as  that. 


64  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

Always,  always  I  knew  him.  Once  we  were  al 
ways  together.  Then  we  seemed  to  separate, 
wider  and  wider  —  the  bodies  in  which  we  dwelt 
in  the  external  world  walked  apart  —  O,  for 
weary  ages,  it  seemed.  And  then  we  met  —  here, 
in  this  very  room  —  in  Egypt  —  only  yesterday. 
That  chapter  in  my  life  is  the  most  vivid  of  all. 
Listen,  Sara,  I  was  the  guardian  of  that  light  — 
I  was  the  virgin  of  the  temple  —  and  we  met, 
and  blended,  as  two  rays  unite.  And  there  was  a 
long,  long  rest  —  together.  ...  It  was  night  to  the 
world,  but  the  brightest  Day  to  life  —  and  when 
and  how  it  closed,  this  saddle  of  the  flesh  bears 
too  heavily  for  me  to  recall.  But  the  Ray  split 
again,  and  we  came  back  to  live  with  men  and 
search  the  world  over  for  each  other.  Perhaps 
we  sinned  before  this  altar  —  perhaps  it  was  but 
the  way  of  Things.  I  am  no  philosopher,  Sara. 
Mrs.  BLAKE.  In  the  real  world  there  is  no  sin. 
So  much  my  reason  tells  me.  We  act  thus  and 
so  because  our  lives  demand  it  —  and  the  goal  is 
the  same.  You  have  grown  faster  than  the  rest 
of  us,  Julia  — 


THE  THIRD  ACT  65 

JULIA.  Not  faster,  but  differently.  Must  every 
soul  be  drawn  along  the  same  trail  ?  It  is  enough, 
I  think,  that  we  all  suffer.  If  I  have  learned  a 
different  lesson  in  the  ages,  Sara,  it  is  because  I 
have  lived  much  in  a  perfect  light  —  the  light  of 
union.  .  .  .  But,  O,  the  darkness  that  has  fallen, 
and  the  numbness  of  my  soul  in  those  intervals 
when  I  have  wandered  alone !  To  know,  to  real 
ize  the  ideal  —  and  then  to  lose  !  —  to  grope  — 
(turns  away,  in  silence). 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (after  a  pause,  softly).  There 
were  other  lives  between  this  period  in  Egypt 
and  today? 

JULIA.  Many  of  them,  I  think,  but  only  in  the 
deepest  silence  of  the  night  can  I  recall  their  in 
cidents.  In  many  lands  we  have  lived  — 

Mrs.  BLAK^.  And  always  together? 

JULIA.  Not  always.  And  those  times  —  those 
years,  those  lives,  or  centuries  perhaps,  when  we 
were  separated  —  those  I  do  not  know ;  of  them 
I  have  no  memory  because  they  were  not  real.  I 
am  not  complete  without  him.  I  am  but  half  the 
Ray.  AH  my  real  existence  has  been  in  him. 


66  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  That  is  self-effacement  and 
sounds  like  the  Mussulman's  faith,  Julia,  which 
says  that  a  woman  can  only  gain  heaven  by  cling 
ing  to  her  husband's  robe. 

JULIA.  There  could  be  no  heaven  apart  from 
him  —  nor  any  real  life.  And  what  is  the  end  of 
all  living  but  self-effacement,  a  forgetting  of  the 
ever-changing  personal  aims  in  the  larger  and 
more  lasting  aims  of  the  impersonal?  Oh,  why 
must  every  woman  walk  and  talk  and  think  as 
every  other  woman?  Do  I  not  know  my  own 
soul  at  least  better  than  another  may  know  it? 
The  needs,  the  cravings  of  my  own  nature, 
should  I  not  know  them  better  than  another  ?  .  .  . 
All  my  younger  years  I  spent  apart  from  my 
surroundings,  living  far  away  —  with  him. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  In  the  past.  It  were  surely 
wrong  to  live  in  the  past. 

JULIA.  Not  in  the  past,  Sara.  Only  since  our 
meeting  now  has  the  past  come  before  me  so  viv 
idly.  .  .  .  And  yet — was  it  in  the  future?  I 
can't  tell.  ...  It  was  apart,  in  a  different  realm 
—  a  brighter,  fairer  world  than  this.  Day  and 


THE  THIRD  ACT  67 

night  my  soul  mingled  with  his  in  this  other 
realm. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Another  realm  —  here,  in  this 
Daytime  of  our  life?  You  have  reached  it,  Julia? 

JULIA.  Oh,  the  world  is  very  big,  very  big, 
Sara  —  far  beyond  the  city  streets,  and  the  hills, 
and  the  sea!  It  has  realms  of  depth  and  height 
and  brightness.  There  are  other  and  keener  fac 
ulties  than  the  senses  —  you  know  there  are ;  ev 
ery  woman  knows  there  are.  .  .  .  We  walked 
the  clouds  of  this  ideal  world,  hand-in-hand  — 
until  the  pressure  of  my  home  life  became  too 
great.  As  I  grew  to  womanhood  I  began  to  leave 
the  cloudlands,  and  slowly,  reluctantly  —  and  O, 
how  bitter  was  the  descent !  —  I  came  to  busy 
myself  with  the  tangible  and  trivial  things  of  life. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  You  had  your  part  to  play  in 
life,  like  all  of  us. 

JULIA.  Yes;  that  is  what  they  all  say:  my  — 
part  —  in  —  life !  And  everyone  knew  better  what 
that  part  was  than  did  I.  Well,  well,  I  have 
played  it  —  or  played  at  it.  The  world  ought  to 
be  satisfied  now  and  let  me  alone. 


68  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Forgive  me,  Julia,  I  do  not  mean 
to  add  my  counsel  to  that  of  the  world.  You  had 
a  right  to  be  yourself. 

JULIA.  And  the  world  denied  that  right  at  ev 
ery  step  of  my  life.  I  was  molten,  and  the  world 
an  earthen  mold  into  which  my  surroundings 
forced  me. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  The  hardest  thing  in  life  to  learn 
is  to  let  others  alone.  It  is  the  last  thing  that 
even  radicals  learn,  when  they  do  learn  it,  that 
everyone's  viewpoint  is  right  —  for  him  or  her. 

JULIA.  Because  the  world  doesn't  see  that  the 
motive  of  life  is  a  secret  known  only  to  each 
soul.  I  am  told  that  I  must  be  useful  to  the 
world,  but  how  can  I  be  of  use  to  anyone  when 
my  life  is  bent  and  tortured?  Oh,  I  am  tired, 
tired  of  it  all,  and  if  the  prince  does  not  come 
for  me — .  But  he  will  come,  now  that  we  have 
found  each  other  in  the  external  world  again. 
He  will  find  me  here,  waiting  — 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  But  —  here  —  why,  it  isn't  prop 
er,  dear! 

JULIA.    Not  proper  that  Alexander  and  I  should 


THE  THIRD  ACT  69 

be  together?  Why,  then,  it's  not  proper  that  the 
sun  should  warm  the  earth.  I  do  not  love  this 
man,  dear.  It  is  much  more  than  that.  I  am  just 
a  natural  part  of  him.  He  is  incomplete  without 
me,  and  I,  apart  —  I  am  but  waiting. 

Mrs.  BL,AKE.  But  you  married? 

JULIA  (bitterly).  I  did.  That  was  your  pro 
priety,  your  convention.  I  was  weak  —  and  alone. 
I  had  to  share  the  sins  and  griefs  of  this  age,  I 
suppose.  I  forgot  my  real  life.  I  was  overborne 
by  the  set  purpose  of  other  people  to  shape  my 
life  for  me.  I  yielded  —  married.  See  what  it 
has  come  to,  Sara.  I  am  tired  of  the  mean  and 
petty  purposes  of  life.  I  wish  I  could  never  wake 
again  —  or  else  — 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  That  the  prince  may  carry  you 
away?  But  there  are  no  princes  in  real  life, 
dearie  —  and  then,  I  can't  let  Alexander  come  in 
here  and  find  you  like  this  —  can  I  ?  Think  how 
contrary  it  is  to  our  ideas  of  things. 

JULIA.  But  you  don't  say  it  would  be  wrong, 
Sara  —  you  can't  say  that.  And  why  should  I 
care  for  social  usages  that  have  done  nothing  but 


70  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

drag  me  down  from  the  ideals  of  my  girlhood  — 
(Half  rising  — fearfully)  Sara,  dear,  Sara  — 
O,  you  will  not  keep  the  prince  away  from  me? 
He  will  come  —  I  know  he  will.  You  won't,  you 
won't  lock  the  door? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  I  —  won't  —  lock  —  the  door. 
Sleep  if  you  can,  dear.  Dream  as  you  will.  Per 
haps  you  are  right.  Would  that  I  had  strength 
to  guide  my  own  heart.  Good-night,  dear;  I  am 
going.  (As  she  goes  softly  toward  exit  she  meets 
ALEXANDER  in  the  doorway.  He  is  surprised  to 
find  her  there  and  is  about  to  turn  back.  She  mo 
tions  to  him  to  remain  and  points  toward  couch, 
then  goes  out.) 

ALEXANDER  (goes  to  couch)  I  knew  I  should 
find  you  here,  Judith. 

JULIA.  I  knew  you  would  come. 

ALEXANDER.  My  queen  of  the  ages!  .  .  .  and 
now  .  .  .  ? 

JULIA.  We  must  not  part  again.  You  will  take 
me  away  from  this  life,  Alessandro? 

ALEXANDER.  I  must  go  back  to  India. 

JULIA.  Ah,  there  is  poetry  in  the  name  for  me. 


THE  THIRD  ACT  71 

We  have  lived  there  —  long  ago  —  Alessandro? 

ALEXANDER.  Long  ago,  as  you  say;  but  now 
that  I  hold  your  hand  in  mine  and  once  more 
find  my  better  self  in  the  depths  of  your  eyes, 
there  seems  to  be  no  long  ago,  no  past  —  it  is  all 
now  —  a  long  vista  of  the  present. 

JUUA.  Yes ;  I  see  it  that  way  —  eternity  stretch 
ing  out  in  a  vast  circle  of  brightness  .  .  .  broken, 
spotted  with  dark  blotches. 

ALEXANDER.  Those  spots  of  darkness  —  they 
are  the  days,  or  the  years,  when  we  were  apart. 

JUUA.  Look  steadily  at  the  circle  of  our  lives 
—  see,  the  dark  spots  are  not  so  numerous. 

ALEXANDER.  No  —  we  have  been  much  to 
gether,  even  when  separated  bodily. 

JULIA.  And  the  time  will  come  —  the  time  will 
come  — 

ALEXANDER.  When  all  the  black  spots  shall 
vanish. 

JULIA.  Do  you  see  that  long  black  gash  so 
close  to  us  ? 

ALEXANDER.  The  gulf  that  we  have  just 
crossed  ? 


72  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

JULIA.  It  seems  bigger  and  blacker  than  all 
the  others. 

ALEXANDER.  Because  it  is  closer,  dear. 

JULIA.  I  was  groping  in  the  dark.  I  must  have 
forgotten  you. 

ALEXANDER.  No,  no ;  it  was  I  who  forgot  you. 
I  spent  a  wild  year  in  Europe  —  and  lost  you  — 

JULIA.  You  could  not  lose  me.  It  was  I  that 
was  untrue  to  my  ideal.  You  were  the  dream 
lover  of  my  early  days,  but  — 

ALEXANDER.  You  lived  in  a  world  that  pil 
lories  the  dreamer.  I  know. 

JULIA.  And  all  about  me  were  practical  peo 
ple.  I  was  scolded,  derided.  I  must  lead  the 
strenuous  life.  I  must  marry  and  fill  a  woman's 
sphere.  I  must  think  of  my  duty  to  parents,  to 
society,  to  posterity  —  to  everything  and  to  ev 
erybody  except  to  myself.  Myself  —  I  was  noth 
ing.  My  inner,  true  self  —  O,  it  had  no  exist 
ence  for  those  whose  fancied  duty  it  was  to 
shape  me. 

ALEXANDER.  I  know,  Judith,  I  know.  And  the 
world  bent  your  will,  as  it  bent  mine  for  a  time. 


THE  THIRD  ACT  73 

I  yielded  —  it  was  that  year  you  married. 

JUUA.  Yes;  and  I  let  myself  sink  into  a  life 
of  emotion  and  sensation.  Should  I  have  strug 
gled  more —  ? 

ALEXANDER.  No,  Life  led  you  true.  To  strug 
gle,  to  breast  the  cosmic  tide  —  that  is  the  real 
madness,  the  lure  of  the  petty  advantage,  from 
the  greater  and  more  enduring  harmony.  You 
took  on  the  burden  of  your  time  and  people,  dear 
woman.  It  was  inevitable.  There  is  no  other 
door  that  opens  to  the  White  Flame  —  and  we 
still  seek  it  —  Judith? 

JUUA.  Long  ago,  and  often,  I  besought  you 
to  leave  me,  to  seek  the  Master  in  the  White 
Flame.  But  you  are  gloriously  stubborn,  Ales- 
sandro. 

ALEXANDER.  You  mean  gloriously  true,  Ju 
dith.  But  it  isn't  so.  I  am  only  self-seeking.  You 
are  the  higher  part  of  me.  The  years  have  taught 
me  something.  Once  I  essayed  to  enter  alone  — 
I  did  not  know.  And  Life  was  kind  to  me  and 
closed  the  Door.  Now  we  go  together. 

JUUA.  Be  it  so  ...  as  one! 


74  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

ALEXANDER.  As  one. 

There  is  a  pause  in  the  dialogue. 

JUUA.  Tomorrow  —  Alessandro  ? 

ALEXANDER  (struggling).  I  must  return  to 
my  work  in  India. 

JULIA.  Alone? 

ALEXANDER  (rises  —  paces  the  room.  He  is 
uncertain — finally,  with  vehemence).  Who  is 
there  to  deny  us  —  to  say  that  we  should  not  go 
together  ? 

JULIA.  None. 

ALEXANDER.  Your  husband? 

JULIA.  There  was  never  a  real  bond  between 
us,  and  he  has  been  out  of  my  life  for  years. 

ALEXANDER.  Then  there  is  only  the  social 
mandate.  It  cannot  count  in  real  life.  (Medita 
tively)  When  men  shall  frame  their  customs  on 
natural  rules,  then  shall  they  bind.  (To  JULIA.) 
Judith,  we  go  together.  We  shall  find  the  Way 
to  the  White  Flame  in  India. 

There  is  a  pause. 

JULIA  (slowly  —  abstractedly).  I  knew  the 
prince  would  come  .  .  .  and  bear  me  away  .  .  . 


THE  THIRD  ACT  75 

(The  first  faint  ray  of  daylight  steals  into  the 
room  and  falls  aslant  the  couch.  She  turns  toward 
the  light.)  I  see  far  into  the  light,  Alessandro, 
and  what  I  see  ...  oh,  (slowly)  I  see  that  we 
shall  not  find  the  White  Flame  in  India  .  „  . 

ALEXANDER.  Not  find  it?  How  — 

JUUA.  Not  in  India. 

ALEXANDER  (goes  to  her,  takes  her  hand,  and 
tries  to  see  in  the  faint  beam  of  light  the  picture 
that  she  is  evidently  struggling  to  translate.) 
Another  dark  spot —  ? 

JUUA.  I  cannot  tell.  My  inner  eyes  are  weak 
.  .  .  O,  I  see  the  White  Flame  —  it  does  not 
fuse  the  flesh.  We  seek  the  impossible.  Only  the 
souls  of  men  may  enter  it.  ...  (Turning  to 
him)  O,  must  you  go  to  India,  Alessandro  — 
must  you  go? 

ALEXANDER.  My  life  work  is  there.  I  must.  .  .  . 
I  could  not  hope  to  gain  you  by  shirking  it. 

JUUA  (looking  back  to  the  light).  The  prince 
leaves  me  —  another  gulf  yawns.  .  .  .  O,  for  a 
brighter  light,  or  a  keener  vision  to  see  beyond  it ! 

ALEXANDER.  It  shall  not  be,  Judith.  We  will 


;6  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

take  life  in  our  own  hands.  It  shall  not  be ! 

JULIA  (sinking  back  on  couch).  What  I  saw 
was  blurred  —  and  dim.  Must  it  be  that  we  part 
again  ? 

ALEXANDER.  No,  no,  no!  Your  eyes  say  No 
to  me,  Judith  —  your  heart  beats  No!  (stroking 
her  hair)  The  scent  of  your  hair  quickens  my 
will.  You  are  the  Cosmic  Woman  to  me  —  spirit, 
soul,  and  body.  Judith,  the  soul  of  you  lures  me 
as  it  always  did.  In  the  depths  of  your  eyes  is 
the  White  Flame! 

JULIA.  Alessandro! 

ALEXANDER.  What  is  it  we  want  in  life?  in 
eternity  ? 

JULIA.  Each  other. 

ALEXANDER.  We  have  found  each  other  —  let 
us  cleave,  and  bid  defiance  to  fate.  We  shall  go 
together.  .  .  .  See,  the  light  grows  stronger. 
Soon  it  will  be  a  broad  White  Flame.  Let  it  find 
us  together! 

JULIA  (turns  to  light  again).  Alessandro! 
(reaches  hand  to  him)  ...  I  see  that  the  White 
Flame  consumes  the  flesh  .  .it  —  cannot  —  be  — 


THE  THIRD  ACT  77 

ALEXANDER.  It  must  be,  and  it  is,  Judith.  To 
gether —  together  ...  we  go  together! 

JULIA  (suddenly  calm).  It  is  the  flesh  that 
separates  us,  Alessandro  —  only  the  flesh.  We 
shall  be  together  —  always  —  always  —  in  the 
real  world.  Our  souls  shall  mingle  while  our 
bodies  walk  apart  —  for  it  is  the  flesh  that  sep 
arates.  .  .  .  And,  O,  how  we  cling  to  it  —  how 
we  cling  to  it ! 

ALEXANDER.  But  why  shun  it?  It  is  not  evil. 

JULIA.  Not  evil,  but  ever-changing  —  ever 
growing  old  and  decaying.  It  is  never  for  a  mo 
ment  the  same.  Ties  that  rest  upon  it  must  share 
its  nature;  loves  that  find  their  expression  in  it 
are  fleeting.  Have  not  all  these  ages  of  bodily 
death  shown  us  a  better  joy  than  the  flesh  has 
power  to  give? 

ALEXANDER.  They  have  taught  you  and  me 
to  welcome  the  Longer  Night,  for  it  means  our 
union.  .  .  .  But  yet  ...  we  must  have  our 
bodies  —  must  dwell  in  them. 

JULIA.  No;  we  choose  them.  They  lure  us, 
and  we  surfeit  in  their  ever-changing  and  never- 


78  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

satisfying   affections   and   emotions  —  over   and 
over  again,  we  choose  the  earth  lure. 

ALEXANDER.  You  speak  the  thought  of  my 
heart,  Judith  .  .  .  And  yet  —  there  is  much  to 
do  on  the  surface  of  life — many  wrongs  to  re 
dress  —  burdens  to  lighten.  .  .  .  Some  must  hold 
aloft  the  ideal. 

JUUA.  And  a  billion  earth-bound  souls  to  do 
it  all  —  and  save  the  last,  none  can  do  for  an 
other.  We  cling  to  the  flesh  and  its  impulses  on 
every  pretext  —  knowing  in  our  hearts  its  empti 
ness,  even  for  those  we  would  serve  .  .  . 

There  is  a  pause.  He  is  seated  on  a  low  stool 
beside  the  couch,  his  head  buried  in  his  hands. 

ALEXANDER  (rousing  himself  —  speaking  soft 
ly).  Judith,  Judith. 

JULIA  (as  though  waking  from  a  dream).  Who 
calls?  I  am  Judith.  I  am  here. 

ALEXANDER  (slowly).  You  —  will  —  go — to 
India  —  with  —  me  —  Judith  ? 

JULIA.  Gladly,  loved  one,  gladly.  How  could 
you  ask  me  in  so  uncertain  tone? 

ALEXANDER.  Judith,  you   have  been   away - 
you  have  been  dreaming. 


THE  THIRD  ACT  79 

JULIA  (half  rising).  No,  I  have  been  awake 
—  oh,  so  awake!  Now  I  am  dreaming;  dream 
ing  of  my  prince  who  is  to  carry  me  off.  Go 
away,  dear  prince  — go  away  now,  and  I  will 
sleep  and  dream  of  tomorrow  and  India.  (Sinks 
back  sleepily.') 

ALEXANDER  (rising  to  go  —  strokes  her  hair 
and  kisses  her  hand).  Tomorrow,  then,  and  In 
dia.  Good-night,  my  life.  (Going.  As  he  ap 
proaches  the  door  Mrs.  BLAKE  and  Dr.  PLODIN- 
GER  enter  hastily.)  Sh— sh!  She  is  sleeping. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Shall  we  waken  her,  Doctor? 

DOCTOR.  There  is  no  alternative;  the  case  is 
serious. 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (to  ALEXANDER).  Her  husband 
has  been  stricken.  He  may  not  live. 

DOCTOR.  I  do  not  say  that.  He  may  live  for 
years,  but  he  is  helpless.  It  is  paralysis.  He  lies 
there  calling  for  her,  unable  to  move.  We  have 
sent  for  a  nurse.  But  she  will  want  to  go  to  him, 
I  think. 

Mrs.  BLAKE  rouses  JULIA  —  whispers  to  her 
as  she  leads  her  toward  door.  Though  at  first 


8o  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

dazed,  JULIA  quickly  comprehends  the  situation 
and  hurries  off,  followed  by  the  DOCTOR. 

ALEXANDER  (to  himself).  So  this  was  the  dark 
spot  which  the  light  revealed  to  her!  (In  tor- 
ture)  To  find  —  and  then  to  lose  ere  grasped! 
.  .  .  Life,  your  dice  are  loaded!  in  your  bland 
est  smile  there  lurks  disaster  —  you  cheat !  .  .  . 
But  I'll  resist  —  and  stake  eternity  to  rout  you! 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (apart).  Must  the  grief  of  an 
other  be  my  only  joy?  .  .  .  She  will  remain  to 
nurse  her  husband  while  he  lives.  Alexander 
cannot  delay  his  departure.  He  has  promised  .  .  . 
we  shall  go  to  Adyar  together  —  and  alone! 
(Turning)  It  is  almost  daylight,  Alexander. 

ALEXANDER   (abstractedly).  Yes. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  There  are  only  a  few  hours  left 
before  our  departure,  dear.  You  must  have  some 
sleep. 

ALEXANDER.  I  shall  not  sail  now.  I  have 
changed  my  plans. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  But  that  is  impossible,  Alexan 
der.  They  expect  you.  What  could  I  tell  them? 
...  I  shall  not  dare  brave  their  disappointment. 


THE  THIRD  ACT  81 

The  work  depends  upon  you  .  .  .  Oh,  you  will 
go,  friend  —  surely? 

ALEXANDER  (hesitates  —  struggling).  Oh,  I 
can't,  can't  go.  Later,  perhaps  —  but  not  now. 
(Vehemently)  No,  I  can't  —  I  can't.  I  won't  go 
now. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Alexander  — 

ALEXANDER.  See,  I  am  calm  —  quite  calm; 
but  I  yield  to  the  stronger  tie. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Does  the  flesh  bind  you  so? 

ALEXANDER.  As  it  does  you  —  as  it  does  all 
of  us. 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (aside).  Oh!  ...  (to  Alexan 
der)  And  the  White  Flame  you  seek  in  India? 

ALEXANDER.  It  is  not  there  ...  it  is  not 
apart  from  Her! 

Enter  Dr.  PLODINGER.  He  is  resting  quietly 
now.  I  think  we  can  retire  and  finish  this  broken 
night  in  slumber. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Is  he  asleep? 

DOCTOR.  Yes;  he  will  probably  sleep  during 
the  entire  day.  It  is  a  bad  case.  I  would  rather 
see  him  dead.  But  come,  now,  I  want  no  more 


82  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

patients  on  my  hands.  There's  Mrs.  Listen  — 
she  is  just  about  collapsed. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Julia,  poor  girl,  I  must  go  to  her 
at  once. 

DOCTOR.  She  is  coming  here. 

Enter  JULIA,  very  pale  and  weak.  She  goes  to 
ALEXANDER. 

JULIA.  You  must  go  to  India  without  me. 

ALEXANDER.  No  —  no  —  ! 

JULIA.  Why  should  we  fret  and  struggle  so, 
when  there  is  all  eternity  before  us!  Oh,  heart 
of  me!  I  know  that  you  are  my  rest,  my  great 
peace  .  .  .  and  that  is  why  we  must  part  now. 
You  will  go —  ? 

ALEXANDER.  You  ask  too  much. 

JULIA.  No  more  than  I  am  giving.  Who  gain 
are  those  who  give.  I  shall  gain.  .  .  .  The  grief 
is  in  the  struggle,  my  heart. 

ALEXANDER.  You  would  darken  our  path 
again  —  project  another  black  spot  — 

JULIA.  The  black  spots  are  the  shadows  of  our 
bodies.  Oh,  we  cannot  cling  to  both  the  soul  and 
body!  Let  us  yield  the  lesser.  I  must  stay  here 


THE  THIRD  ACT  83 

now  —  but  you  will  go,  Alessandro  ?  For  our 
happiness  you  will  go?  ...  And  we  shall  stand 
in  the  White  Flame  together  —  somewhere  — 
sometime  .  .  .  Have  faith  —  and  go!  (sinks  ex 
hausted  on  couch.) 

ALEXANDER.  I  —  will  —  go!  ...  (to  himself) 
She  is  sinking  —  perhaps  dying.  She  cannot  stay 
alone.  How  can  I  leave  her  now?  (Crosses 
quickly  to  Mrs.  BLAKE  and  speaks  hurriedly  and 
low.)  I  go  to  India,  but  I  cannot  leave  her  alone. 
She  is  dying,  perhaps.  You  will  stay  and  care 
for  her? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  I  —  I  —  Alexander ! 

ALEXANDER.  There  is  no  one  else  in  the  world 
to  whom  I  can  appeal  — 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  That  —  is  —  true.  I  will  stay. 
(Goes  to  JULIA,  raises  her.)  Come,  dear  tired 
girl  — 

There  is  a  strong  draught  of  wind  through  the 
room,  which  slowly  pushes  open  the  great  doors 
of  the  White  Portal,  through  which  now  streams 
a  broad  beam  of  white  morning  sunlight,  falling 
not  upon  the  Altar,  but  aslant  to  the  left. 


84  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

JULIA  has  risen,  her  hair  loose  and  her  robe 
falling  below  her  naked  shoulders.  She  and  Mrs. 
BLAKE  are  in  the  center  of  the  beam. 

ALEXANDER  steps  from  the  right  of  the  Portal 
toward  the  two  women.  Soon  he  and  JULIA  are 
face  to  face  in  the  white  light.  They  pause,  then 
make  as  though  to  enter  the  Portal,  but  the  doors 
slowly  swing  to,  shutting  out  the  light  as  the 
curtain  descends. 

END  OF  THIRD  ACT 


The  Fourth 


ACT  FOUR 

FRUITION 

Time  —  Early  evening  three  years  later. 

Scene  — In  the  Garden  of  Merton-Blake  Park.  It 
is  an  old,  old  garden,  upkept  and  weed-grown,  not 
entirely,  but  to  a  delightful  degree,  and  very  pictur 
esque  in  its  wildness  and  almost  perfect  naturalness  — 
an  acre's  clearing  and  flower-planting,  originally,  in 
the  midst  of  perhaps  a  ten-acre  forest.  The  little  oasis 
was  once  enclosed  by  a  high  iron  fence,  but  the  trees 
and  undergrowth  have  crowded  the  fence  so  that  its 
arrow-headed  pickets  are  scarcely  visible,  except  to 
the  left  in  the  background  where  a  large  double  swing 
ing  gate  is  never  closed  to  the  broad  and  well  kept 
path  from  the  Garden  to  the  mansion. 

From  the  arch  over  the  gate  hangs  a  lantern,  al 
ready  lighted  betimes,  for  the  evening  shadows  are 
approaching.  Either  there  never  was  a  fence  at  the 
upper  right  hand  corner  of  the  Garden,  or  the  trees 
and  bushes  mastered  it  long  ago,  for  even  where  the 
narrow  path  leads  into  the  thicket  there  is  no  sign 
of  gate  post  or  fence.  Here  the  bushes  and  weeds 
grow  up  to  meet  the  lower  branches  of  the  trees, 
and  one  could  fancy  it  the  entrance  of  a  primitive 


88  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

jungle.  Everywhere  in  the  Garden  are  flowers  and 
shrubbery,  but  the  paths  are  uncalculated  and  one 
walks  with  but  scant  reference  to  them. 

A  little  to  the  right  of  center  is  an  antique  fountain 
whose  stream  issues  from  the  water  that  an  old  bronze 
green  Venus  Anadyomene  is  wringing  from  her  hair. 
The  coping  of  the  lower  basin  is  weed-choked  and 
moss-covered,  but  the  birds  drink  and  bathe  here  none 
the  less  joyfully.  The  slender,  graceful,  simply  yet  dain 
tily  dressed  woman  who  stands  by  the  fountain  as  the 
curtain  rises,  resting  a  shapely,  ringless  hand  against 
an  arm  of  the  upper  basin,  seems  to  be  a  natural  and 
inevitable  part  of  the  dreamy  picture. 

To  the  left  upper  is  a  large  rustic  bench  strewn 
with  old  rose  leaves,  withered  flowers,  bits  of  greenery, 
and  dried  leaves.  There  may  be  even  spiders  and 
caterpillars  on  it!  About  the  Garden  are  a  couple  of 
tree  stumps,  an  old  chair,  and  a  small  boulder  or  two 
—  ample  seating  capacity,  should  the  ground  be  damp. 

It  is  a  perfect  autumn  evening,  early  in  October. 
The  ground  is  strewn  with  fallen  leaves,  and  the  forest 
trees  are  donning  their  gorgeous  autumn  plumage. 

It  is  nearly  sunset  as  the  curtain  rises.  A  shaft  of 
golden  light  seeps  low  through  the  forest  just  to 
mingle  for  the  last  time  with  the  rival,  though  less 
conspicuous  radiance  of  the  elegant  fragile  woman, 
more  ethereal  than  material,  who  stands  peering  into 
the  waters  of  the  fountain. 


THE  FOURTH  ACT  89 

JULIA  (open  letter  in  her  hand).  Oh,  that  is 
the  secret  —  "  the  omnipotent  power  of  non-re 
sistance."  Dear  heart,  how  beautifully  you  have 
put  my  thought  into  words.  We  must  struggle 
no  more  against  the  Life  Current.  ...  I  may 
not  go  to  you ;  you  may  not  come  to  me  —  while 
the  flesh  lasts.  .  .  .  For  it  is  the  form  that  dark 
ens  the  path  .  .  .  (Reads  letter)  .  .  .  yes,  I  know, 
the  way  seems  long.  Often  I,  too,  see  but  darkly, 
yet  I  am  calm  at  the  center,  Alessandro,  and  if 
you  call  your  own  I  will  come  —  in  the  time  and 
place  that  was  and  is  and  will  be  set  for  the 
blending.  .  .  . 

A  VOICE  (faint,  distant,  almost  imperceptible 
at  first).  Judith  .  .  .  Judith  .  .  . 

JULIA  (startles  slightly,  then  remains  motion 
less  in  rapt  attention).  Ah!  .  .  .  Ales  .  .  . 

THE  VOICE.  Judith  .  .  .  Judith  .  .  . 

JULIA  (very  softly,  smiling).  Alessandro. 

THE  VOICE.  Judith,  I  call  my  own ! 

JULIA.  O  gentle  soul!  the  form  still  casts  a 
shadow  .  .  . 

THE  VOICE.  The  shadow  passeth ! 


90  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

JUUA.  The  shadow  passeth.  O  can  it  be  — 
can  it  be? 

THE  VOICE.  I  call  my  own  in  the  time  and 
place  that  is  .  .  .  that  is  .  .  . 

JUUA  (exultantly).  O  hear! 

THE  VOICE.  The  shadow  passeth  .  .  .  (fading 
away)  Judith  .  .  .  Judith  .  .  . 

JUUA.  I  come  .  .  .The  time  that  is!  (Joy 
fully)  Can  it  be?  ...  At  last  .  .  .  (The  sun 
beam  that  enveloped  her  expires.  Slowly  she 
folds  letter  and  places  it  in  her  bosom.)  The 
light  dazzles  .  .  .  the  soul  leaps.  (Lightly  but 
very  quietly  she  turns  and  walks  away  to  the 
woods.  Once  or  twice  she  pauses  as  though  to 
catch  her  breath  and  rest  from  physical  exertion, 
showing  plainly  that  her  strength  is  exhausted  — 
a  circumstance,  however,  of  which  she  seems  en 
tirely  oblivious.  As  she  -finally  disappears  in  the 
woods  she  repeats  softly)  — The  shadow  pass 
eth  ...  the  shadow  passeth  .  .  . 

Enter  Mrs.  BLAKE,  JANET,  and  Dr.  PLODIN- 
GER  from  the  main  path.  They  walk  leisurely 
down  the  garden  and  dispose  themselves  near 
fountain. 


THE  FOURTH  ACT  91 

JANET.  Do  you  know,  I  can't  entirely  approve 
of  her.  I  could  just  love  her  to  death  —  I  do  — 
but  I  can't  approve. 

DOCTOR.  Is  there  a  woman's  reason  back  of 
that,  Janet  —  or  a  man's? 

JANET.  Umph !  You  were  not  so  subtle  when 
you  wrote  the  Physical  Basis  of  Spirituality, 
Doctor. 

DOCTOR  (in  mock  agony).  My  crimes!  Will 
they  never  down? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Janet's  tongue  is  cleverer  than 
her  heart,  Doctor. 

DOCTOR.  That's  the  woman  of  her.  Her  dis 
approval  of  Mrs.  Liston  is  the  strength  of  the 
masculine  element  coloring  her  views. 

JANET.  A  woman  in  these  days  should  be  more 
inflexible  and  determined.  She  ought  to  have 
something  to  do  and  a  life  of  her  own  to  live. 
Julia  vacillates  too  much.  She  is  uncertain.  She 
dreams  and  never  executes.  Her  emotions  sway 
her  — 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Not  always  —  I  am  sure  —  ? 

JANET.  You   didn't  let   me  finish,   Sara.  Her 


92  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

emotions  control  her  one  day,  she  is  all  mind  and 
intellect  the  next  day,  and  on  a  third  day  she  has 
reached  a  height  of  —  Oh,  what  shall  I  call  it? 

DOCTOR.  Call  it  spirituality,  if  you  want  to. 
That  means  anything  you  want  it  to  mean. 

JANET.  Well,  she  is  poised  and  strong  on  this 
day  and  gains  a  depth  and  loftiness  of  percep 
tion  that  draws  her  to  the  angels  and  opens  the 
door  of  heaven  to  those  about  her.  You  couldn't 
hold  a  thought  of  pettiness  or  meanness  in  the 
same  atmosphere  with  her  on  that  day  ...  or 
on  any  day,  for  that  matter.  But  you  know  what 
I  mean.  She  is  in  the  clouds  on  that  day  and  you 
just  have  to  go  with  her. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Why,  Janet,  you're  talking  sheer 
poetry. 

JANET.  Of  course,  Sara,  and  I  can't  help  it. 
A  clod  could  not  associate  with  that  fragile  bun 
dle  of  emotions,  intellect,  and  spirituality,  as  I 
have  for  the  past  two  years,  and  not  have  some 
poetry  driven  into  his  soul. 

DOCTOR.  Soul,  eh?  that  sounds  well  from 
Janet. 


THE  FOURTH  ACT  93 

JANET.  Soul  is  poetry  when  I  speak  it.  And 
Julia  —  she  is  just  a  soul  poem,  with  a  little  flesh 
and  some  clothes  about  her. 

DOCTOR.  Far  too  little  of  the  former,  I  am 
afraid.  But  tell  us,  is  there  a  fourth  day? 

JANET.  There  is  —  a  day  of  apathy  —  when 
the  spirit,  will,  emotions,  and  mind,  all  are  gone, 
and  she  is  only  a  tired,  irritable  woman  —  nerves, 
you  know.  I  just  long  to  love  her  on  those  days, 
but  she  hides  herself. 

DOCTOR.  Ah,  that  is  her  real  saintship. 

JANET.  How  so? 

DOCTOR.  That  she  hides  herself  on  that  fourth 
day  —  the  day  most  women  choose  to  inflict 
themselves  on  others. 

JANET.  Julia  Liston  couldn't  inflict  herself  at 
any  time,  on  anybody. 

DOCTOR.  I  don't  believe  she  could  —  but  Janet 
doesn't  approve  of  her  entirely,  remember,  and 
I'll  tell  you  why,  Mrs.  Blake. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Do,  Doctor.  I've  been  away  so 
long  I  hardly  know  my  own  household. 

DOCTOR.  Judged   entirely    from   the    feminine 


94  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

side,  Mrs.  Listen  is  an  ideal,  but  she  hasn't 
enough  of  the  masculine  element  in  her  to  make 
a  good  suffragette.  (JANET  is  about  to  interpose) 
Oh,  I'm  not  objecting  to  a  little  —  or  even 
much  —  masculinity  in  women.  I  take  them  as  I 
find  them  and  try  to  explain  them.  Mrs.  Liston 
is  a  rara  avis  in  these  days  —  yes,  wisely  so  I 
have  no  doubt,  for  the  period  is  a  strenuous  one, 
and  the  energy  of  men  is  vamparized  by  a  com 
mercialism  that  has  run  to  graft,  so  that  men  are 
no  longer  the  thinkers  of  the  world. 

JANET.  I  applaud  you  (clapping  her  hands 
softly) 

DOCTOR.  But  Mrs.  Liston  is  more  nearly  the 
pure  feminine  type  than  I  have  ever  met  before. 
Whatever  of  the  masculine  element  she  has  is 
subjective.  Spiritually  she  is  deep  and  strong,  in 
tellectually  keen  and  subtle,  but  externally  she 
is  —  well,  observe  her  —  she  is  sympathetic,  gen 
erous,  kindly,  lovable  —  but  weak. 

JANET.  That  man  is  in  love  with  her. 

DOCTOR.  Quite  true,  Janet.  That  is  a  cosmic 
necessity.  Did  you  ever  see  a  man  within  her 
scope  who  was  not  in  love  with  her  ? 


THE  FOURTH  ACT  95 

JANET.  He  wouldn't  be  a  man  —  just  a  ninny. 
She  is  fine ! 

DOCTOR.  Fine  is  a  good  word  there,  Janet. 
She  is  finely  woven,  and  of  a  little  finer  material, 
I  often  think,  than  the  rest  of  us. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  I  am  sure  of  it,  Doctor.  (To 
JANET)  Did  she  think  of  going  out  to  India  when 
her  husband  died  ? 

JANET.  Yes,  and  ever  since  —  on  those  emo 
tional  days.  I  don't  want  to  lose  her,  and  I  don't 
think  she  could  stand  the  long  journey  — 

DOCTOR.  You  are  wrong  there.  She  could 
stand  anything  her  heart  and  mind  were  set  on. 

JANET.  But  it  always  did  puzzle  me  why  she 
didn't  go  when  she  was  free. 

DOCTOR.  I  suppose  there  was  no  necessity  of 
her  going  to  India.  She  and  Alexander  have  an 
nihilated  distance  in  what  is  to  them  a  very  real 
sense.  They  are  much  together,  I  fancy. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Does  Alexander  write  often? 

JANET.  No.  And  usually  she  puts  his  letters 
under  her  pillow  unread.  She  knows  what's  in 
them  —  she  says. 


96  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

DOCTOR.  You  almost  forgot  that  qualifying 
clause,  Janet. 

JANET.  Oh,  I  make  an  exception  of  this  case. 
Julia  Listen  can  set  aside  the  laws  of  the  uni 
verse,  I  am  about  convinced. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  No  need  for  that,  Janet. 

DOCTOR.  Just  grasp  them  and  use  them. 

JANET  (drily).  Yes,  as  you  say  in  the  Phys 
ical  Limits. 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (guardedly).  Does  she  know,  I 
wonder,  that  Alexander  has  been  ill  with  the 
fever  ? 

JANET.  I  have  scarcely  talked  with  her  for  a 
week  —  she  has  been  so  much  alone  —  off  there 
in  the  woods  most  of  the  time  —  and  there  has 
been  no  letter  for  a  fortnight.  How  long  has  he 
been  ill? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  There  was  a  cable  in  town  await 
ing  me  yesterday.  It  is  two  days  now  since  he 
was  stricken.  (Very  slowly}  It  seems  there  is 
not  much  hope  of  his  recovery. 

JANET.  You  never  told  us! 

DOCTOR  (reproachfully').   Mrs.  Blake — I 


THE  FOURTH  ACT  97 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (looking  around,  speaking  more 
guardedly).  I  tried  to  forget  it,  to  hide  it  as 
deeply  as  I  could,  to  put  the  bare  thought  of  it 
out  of  my  mind  until  after  I  had  seen  Julia.  I 
should  not  have  mentioned  it  now  — 

DOCTOR.  But  you  will  have  to  tell  her  ? 

Mrs.  BLAK£.  I  think  not.  I  saw  Alexander  at 
Adyar  about  a  month  ago.  I  am  satisfied  their 
understanding  is  very  complete,  and  that  any 
news  I  should  convey  to  her  by  word  or  thought 
would  be  unnecessary  and  merely  confuse  her. 
She  will  know  in  her  —  in  their  —  own  way. 

DOCTOR.  I  believe  it.  And  the  least  physical 
or  emotional  disturbance  of  her  would  prove 
fatal,  I  am  sure.  (Musingly)  Sometimes  I  think 
they  ought  to  have  married.  I  believe  I  should 
have  written  to  Alexander  insisting  upon  it,  only 
that  Janet  proved  such  a  tender  and  competent 
nurse.  For  two  years  now  there  has  been  no  rea 
son  why  they  should  not  have  wed. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Every  reason  in  the  world  —  for 
them  —  or  at  least  the  very  best  reason.  They 
fear  a  breach  in  their  perfect  spiritual  union  and 
know  that  an  emotional  or  physical  expression  of 


98  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

it  would  cause  such  a  breach  —  however  tempo 
rary. 

DOCTOR.  But  that  is  repression,  isn't  it?  I'm 
only  asking  to  strengthen  my  own  views,  you 
know.  Isn't  it  a  repression  and  a  pervasion  of 
their  natures  —  as  the  world  would  say  ? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  That  might  be  true  of  another 
couple,  but  not  of  them.  No,  they  are  only  obey 
ing  the  strongest  urge  of  their  natures. 

DOCTOR.  An  urge,  or  desire,  created  by  and 
growing  out  of  their  recollection  of  many  pre 
vious  lives'  experiences  — 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Yes,  and  I  think  they  are  wise 
to  follow  it.  Rather  would  it  be  a  perversion  for 
them  to  defeat  or  delay  this  greater  desire  of 
their  lives  by  yielding  to  the  passing  emotion  .  .  . 
But  she  is  the  stronger.  She  holds  him  to  the 
permanent,  and  he  — 

DOCTOR.  Well,  and  he? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  It  seems  almost  indelicate  for  us 
to  speak  of  these  things,  doesn't  it?  (JANET 
shrugs  her  shoulders  and  the  DOCTOR  is  silent.) 
He,  well  he  is  madly,  grandly  proud  of  her  for 


THE  FOURTH  ACT  99 

the  very  thing  in  her  which  his  more  vigorous 
personality  sometimes  tries  to  overcome.  At  first 
he  was  in  despair  at  her  not  coming  out  to  India 
when  she  was  free.  But  now  —  oh,  I  think  these 
two  have  found  the  Way  —  their  Way,  let  us  say. 

DOCTOR.  And  when  you  put  it  like  that,  "  their 
Way,"  you  have  disarmed  all  criticism.  (Slyly) 
Now  even  Janet  — 

JANET.  Yes,  "their  Way''  ends  all  discussion. 
I  used  to  think  everybody's  way  should  be  the 
same  —  but  that  was  when  I  was  reading  the 
Physical  Limits  of  Spirituality. 

DOCTOR.  I  groan.  If  you  could  only  forget. 

JANET.  I  have  almost  forgotten.  Julia  should 
be  here  with  us.  It  is  nearly  dark.  I  am  going  to 
find  her  and  bring  her  to  hear  the  Doctor's  wit. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Do,  dear;  bring  her  if  you  can. 

Exit  JANET. 

DOCTOR.  I  didn't  want  to  alarm  Janet,  but  — 
Mrs.  Liston  is  —  well,  I  hardly  think  that  she 
can  be  with  us  much  longer. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Yes,  I  could  see  the  change.  Can 
you  do  nothing  for  her,  Doctor? 


ioo  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

DOCTOR.  I  hardly  expected  such  a  question 
from  you,  Mrs.  Blake. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Thank  you  Doctor,  for  correct 
ing  me.  It  was  a  slip  of  the  tongue,  an  echo  of 
my  external  world  life.  Of  course  there  is  noth 
ing  the  matter  with  her. 

DOCTOR.  It  is  the  spirit  refining  the  flesh  — 
the  soul  escaping,  forgetting,  the  earth  lure. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Slowly  and  surely  she  is  dy 
ing  ...? 

DOCTOR.  If  we  must  use  that  word.  Surely, 
but  not  slowly. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  And  I  was  right,  wasn't  I,  in 
withholding  the  news  of  Alexander's  sudden  ill 
ness?  She  will  know. 

DOCTOR.  She  does  know,  but  in  a  different 
way.  Spiritually  you  could  tell  her  nothing,  and 
the  nerves  and  emotions  must  not  be  shocked. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  We  must  forget  it  entirely,  while 
she  is  here. 

DOCTOR.  By  all  means.  She  could  feel  it  in  our 
thoughts,  plainly.  Did  she  inquire  about  him? 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  No  —  but  then  I  have  scarcely 


THE  FOURTH  ACT  101 

seen  her  alone  yet.  Ah,  there  they  come. 

Enter  JANET  (with  JUUA.  The  latter  is  Hushed 
with  the  exertion  of  walking,  but  is  bright  and 
cheerful.  JANET  leads  her  to  a  seat) .  There,  dear ; 
I  walked  you  too  fast.  But  I  was  afraid  you 
would  miss  some  of  the  Doctor's  wit. 

JUUA  (lightly).  Sara  dear  —  and  Doctor  — 
don't  scold  me,  please,  for  my  unkindness  in 
keeping  away.  I  meant  to  come  earlier,  but  the 
moments  fly  so. 

DOCTOR.  Didn't  your  ears  tingle?  We  were 
talking  of  you. 

JUUA.  What  a  doleful  time  you  must  have 
had.  I  didn't  miss  so  much,  then,  as  I  thought. 

JANET.  Oh,  but  it  wasn't  all  about  you.  The 
Doctor  gave  us  a  learned  discourse  on  the  Phys 
ical  Limits,  you  know. 

DOCTOR.  She  can  not  be  truthful.  Mrs.  Listen, 
as  friend  and  physician  I  am  bound  to  warn  you 
against  too  close  association  with  such  a  thank 
less  liar  — 

JUUA  (rising  and  going  to  JANET).  Yes,  I 
know,  Doctor,  She  is  awful  (to  JANET)  sweet. 


102  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

But  I  have  a  perverted  love  for  her  (laughs  and 
puts  arm  about  JANET). 

DOCTOR.  Oh,  very  well,  but  I  have  warned  you. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Couldn't  we  have  tea  out  here, 
Janet  —  and  another  light  ? 

JANET.  Just  the  thing.  I'll  go  and  ring  (Goes 
left  to  main  path.  At  the  gate  she  is  met  by  a 
MESSENGER,  who  refuses  to  be  halted)  What  is 
it  —  tell  me?  Don't  disturb  them. 

MESSENGER.  I  have  to  deliver  it  directly  to 
Mrs.  Merton-Blake  in  person  (hurries  on  down 
toward  the  little  group  who  are  conversing  quiet 
ly,  despite  JANET'S  further  efforts  to  stop  him, 
and  calls  out  lustily)  —  Cablegram  for  Mrs.  Mer 
ton-Blake.  Cable  from  India! 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (turns  in  dismay  and  tries  to  head 
off  any  further  demonstration).  Be  still  — 

JULIA  (suddenly  alert).  Ah!  .  .  .  the  time  that 
is  ... 

MESSENGER.  It  is  marked  Rush  and  Important 
ma'am. 

Mrs.  BLAKE.  Oh,  be  still,  be  still ! 

MESSENGER.  Yes  ma'am.  Charges  all  paid 
ma'am.  Sign  here  ma'am. 


THE  FOURTH  ACT  103 

JUUA  is  exhausted  by  the  sudden  shock.  She 
is  alone  for  a  moment,  Dr.  PLODINGER  having 
gone  forth  to  thrash,  tip,  and  expunge  the  noisy 
intruder.  Two  of  these  he  does  with  alacrity  and 
returns  to  find  that  JULIA  has  silently  fallen  to 
the  ground. 

Mrs.  BLAKE  (already  beside  her}.  Darling 
girl! 

JULIA  (faintly}.    I  walked  so  much  today. 

DOCTOR  (takes  JULIA  in  his  arms  and  is  about 
to  carry  her  indoors) .  You'll  be  all  right  in  a  few 
moments. 

JULIA.  Please  let  me  stay  out  of  doors,  Doctor. 

DOCTOR.  Quite  right,  Mrs.  Listen  (carries  her 
to  the  rustic  bench.  She  is  too  weak  to  sit  up.) 

JANET.  Shall  I  fetch  some  brandy  or  cordial, 
Doctor? 

DOCTOR.  I  think  not,  Janet. 

JULIA  (very  labor edly,  but  with  an  effort  at 
sprightliness) .  Thank  you  Doctor, — and  you, 
too,  Janet.  Oh,  what  dear  good  friends  you  have 
been  to  me  .  .  . 

JANET  sits  on  the  end  of  the  bench,  and  Dr. 


104  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

PLODINGER  and  Mrs.  BLAKE  stand  at  opposite 
sides  of  it.  They  are  silent,  seeming  to  realize  the 
futility  of  saying  anything  and  the  inappropriate- 
ness  of  small  talk.  They  have  forgotten  the  ca 
blegram  which  remains  unopened  in  Mrs.  BLAKE'S 
hand. 

JULIA.  Sweet  life!  I  am  coming!  .  .  .  The 
shadow  passeth  .  .  .  Sweetheart,  now  life  begins 
(raising  her  hands)  the  shadow  passeth! 

It  has  become  quite  dark,  save  for  the  lantern 
over  the  gate,  whose  dull  rays  show  plainly  the 
white  raised  hands  of  JULIA. 

Now  a  shaft  of  moonlight  reaches  through  the 
forest  trees  and  falls  aslant  the  fountain.  This 
broadens  out  and  grows  denser.  It  is  hazy  and 
opaque,  but  white,  like  a  low  fog  at  sea  when 
the  sun  is  trying  to  pierce  it. 

From  the  right  a  VOICE  is  heard  —  Judith ! 

JULIA  (very  faintly).  I  am  Judith  ...  I  am 
coming,  beloved. 

The  faint  outlines  of  a  figure  is  seen  emerging 
from  the  center  of  the  moonbeam  in  the  trees.  It 
is  ALESSANDRO,  garbed  as  in  Act.  I.  It  speaks  — 
Judith,  the  long  night  is  over. 


THE  FOURTH  ACT  105 

JULIA  (can  be  dimly  seen  in  the  lantern  light 
to  half  rise)  Alessandro  .  .  .  And  the  White 
Flame!  It  shall  fuse! 

ALESSANDRO.  There  is  no  whiter  flame  than 
thy  pure  soul ! 

JULIA  (exultantly}.  And  the  Master  —  there! 
(points  to  trees  where  now  is  seen  the  outlines 
of  the  TEACHER)  Alessandro  (tries  to  rise  as 
though  to  go  to  him)  I  come  (falls  back  gently.) 

The  figure  of  ALESSANDRO  vanishes. 

The  light  grows  more  intense,  but  remains 
opaque  so  that  outlines  in  it  are  not  sharp  and 
distinct. 

For  an  instant  all  outlines  are  obliterated,  then 
slowly  reappears  the  TEACHER  in  the  back 
ground,  his  hand  outstretched,  and  presently,  be 
fore  him  stand  two  nude  figures,  male  and  fe 
male.  It  is  all  very  dim  and  shadowy,  and  the 
apparition  lasts  only  a  moment,  but  it  is  quite 
clear  that  the  figures  are  nude  —  and  unashamed. 

TEACHER  (in  voice  plain  and  clear).  In  the 
White  Flame  I  come.  In  its  fusing  rays  shall  ye 
blend.  I  greet  ye  at  the  Portal,  as  all  are  greeted 


106  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

when  they  willingly  sever  the  last  deceiving  ties 
of  flesh. 

The  light  burns  still  -fiercer,  and  again  all  out 
lines  are  expunged.  It  clears  again,  becoming  al 
most  transparent,  and  first  is  seen,  in  heroic  size 
the  Portal  from  the  Temple  chamber  as  in  Act 
I,  over  which  hangs  the  White  Light.  The  doors 
of  the  Portal  are  open  and  the  TEACHER  emerges 
a  step  or  two  to  meet  a  single  white-robed  FIG 
URE  that  now  stands  where  stood  the  nude  couple. 

THE  FIGURE  (advancing  a  step}.  I  would  en 
ter.  (The  voice  is  not  ALEXANDER'S,  but  another 
entirely  —  a  stronger,  deeper,  and  more  musical 
voice. ) 

TEACHER.  What  seekest  thou? 

THE  FIGURE.  The  Higher  Way. 

TEACHER.  It  lies  not  on  the  path  of  personal 
advantage. 

THE  FIGURE.  I  seek  not  that  which  all  shall 
not  gain. 

TEACHER.  Nor  couldst  thou  achieve  it.  Across 
this  threshold  lies  not  a  paradise  of  ease,  but  the 
choice  of  oblivious  sleep  till  the  Night  of  Earth's 


THE  FOURTH  ACT  107 

Day  .  .  .  or,  arpin  them  canst  relinquish  .  .  . 

THE:  FIGURE.  Relinquish  ...  to  what  pur 
pose? 

TEACHER.  To  suffer  still  with  men,  and  through 
their  suffering,  in  their  griefs  and  pains,  to  offer 
cooling  cups  to  parched  lips  —  and  tear  aside  the 
veils  of  matter  that  hide  their  vision  from  the 
Perfect  Light.  .  .  .  'Tis  for  thee  to  choose. 

The  light  has  grown  softer  and  more  diffused, 
until  now  the  entire  Garden  is  in  moonlight, 
showing  dimly  the  little  group  by  the  rustic 
bench. 

A  very  powerful  White  Light  issues  from  over 
the  Portal  and  casts  a  ray  from  the  TEACHER  to 
the  FIGURE  in  front  of  him. 

THE  FIGURE.  I  relinquish. 

At  once,  commencing  even  before  he  speaks, 
the  FIGURE  is  surrounded  by  a  delicate  lilac- 
tinted  aura  which  quickly  deepens  to  transparent 
purple. 

TEACHER.  Hail,  to  a  Helper  of  men! 

END  OF  THE  PLAY 


The  Last  Word 


The  Last  Word 


tIThat  THE  WHITE  FLAME  shall  be  appraised,  if  at  all,  as 
an  idealistic  play  intentionally  unincumbered  by  sym 
bolism  (or  indigent  of  it,  as  you  will)  is  my  hope,  and  the 
chief  reason  for  this  additamentum.    With  the  engrossing 
problems  of  the  market-place,  or  of  social  and  civic  life : 
with  the  passional  and  legal  relations  of  the  sexes,  as  with 
the  mystifying,  when  not  equivocal  trend  of  symbology, 
this  play  has  scant  or  no  concern.   Is  there  not  already  a 
sufficiency  of  plays  motived  on  these  problems  and  con 
ditions?  And  if  there  be  need  of  more,  are  not  the  masters, 
Shaw  and  Maeterlinck,  still  producing?   Is  it  presump 
tuous  for  me  to  use  these  names  on  this  page  ?  How 
greater,  then,  would  be  the  impertinence  for  me  to 
seek  to  enter  their  fields  ?  — •  and  certainly  quite  foreign 
to  my  inclination  and  way  of  thought. 
<JThe  ultimate  good  of  life  —  or  any  satisfying  and 
lasting  good  —  is  not  to  be  found  on  its  surface.    Only  the 
ideal  is  true  and  of  power  to  confer  comparatively  per 
manent  happiness  or  peace.    The  themes  of  this  play  reach 
beyond  the  surface  of  life  —  where  there  is  room  for 
ideals  and  for  a  rational  optimism.   Why  are  all  the  logical 
plays,  of  life  and  of  the  stage,  tragedies  when  not  come 
dies  ?  Because  they  deal  only  with  the  emotional  nature, 
which  is  but  the  froth  on  the  real  Cuo  of  Life.   And  why 
may  not  art  concern  itself  with  something  other  than 
emotions  ? 


ii2  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

<J  As  to  the  ideals  of  this  play.  Dare  they  be  considered  as 
possibilities  —  however  distant  ?    Which  inquiry  leads  to 
this  comment  on  its  controlling  theme :  That  Reincarna 
tion,  viewed  from  the  facet  of  the  personal  workaday 
consciousness,  is  rather  a  beautiful  possibility  than  a 
present  actuality.    For  if  we  do  not  consciously  remember 
at  least  the  important  outlines  of  our  previous  lives  — 
which  now  we  do  not  —  then  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
we  have  not  Reincarnated.  The  moral  of  which  is,  of 
course,  as  Dr.  Plodinger  hints  to  Janet  Hards,  that  so 
long  as  our  attention  is  focussed  upon  those  things  which 
in  their  very  nature  are  temporary,  so  long  we  will  not 
remember  the  permanent. 

€J  Nothing  within  man's  scope  is  entirely  permanent,  but 
that  Individual  part  of  him  which  does  Reincarnate  thru 
manv  lives  and  ages,  is  relatively  permanent,  and  in  so 
much  as  one's  attention  should  be  focussed  upon  it  nor 
mally  and  rationally,  to  that  extent  would  he  remember 
its  experiences.  And  whether  he  remember  them  or  not 
they  none  the  less  make  him  what  he  is,  as  to  inherent 
qualities  and  tendencies. 

€J  As  to  the  final  theme  of  the  play,  Renunciation,  it  is 
presented  here  not  as  the  horrible  and  torturing  thing 
that  Judaism  pictures  it  in  nailing  a  living  man  to  a  cross, 
but  in  the  natural  and  harmonious  manner  of  that  far 
more  philosophical  religion  of  Asia  in  which  the  idea  of 
Reincarnation  is  ever  uppermost.   If  to  "  be  good  "  must 
lead  to  torture,  then  why  be  "  good  "  ?  Well,  we  are  not 
verv  noticeably  "  good  "  —  we  Christians.    To  renounce 
should  be  to  gain  a  greater  joy  —  else  why  renounce  ? 
Herbert  Spencer's  logic  of  Enlightened  Self  Interest  is 


THE  LAST  WORD  113 

more  in  accord  with  Brahamanism  than  with  Judaism, 
surely  —  or  with  Buddhism  than  with  Christianity,  let 
us  say.    In  the  former  the  highest  ideal  of  individual  good 
is  never  at  variance  with  the  greatest  common  good  :  to 
renounce  is  but  to  grasp  a  Fairer  Rose.  In  the  latter 
individual  happiness  and  the  general  welfare  are  forever 
at  sword  point :  to  renounce  is  to  put  on  the  Crown  of 
Thorns.    It  is  the  difference  between  the  Oriental  and  the 
Occidental,  between  the  Philosopher  and  the  Puritan.  The 
difference  between  tweedledee  and  tweedledum,  do  I 
hear  one  say  ?  I  think  not,  but  rather  an  important  and 
fundamental  difference  of  temperament  that  enables  the 
Oriental  always  to  be  philosophically  optimistic  and  leads 
the  Occidental  either  to  be  inanely  cheerful  or  thought 
fully  morose. 

QThe  ethereal,  or  spiritual,  blending  of  the  sexes  is  an 
idea  that  wormed  itself  into  the  play  with  no  forethought 
or  planning  of  mine.  It  presented  itself  logically,  however, 
and  seemed  to  appeal  as  an  artistic  solution  of  a  problem 
to  which  there  is  no  physical  answer. 

<J  You  have  a  man  and  a  woman  —  if  you  are  writing  a 
play  —  and  you  lead  them  through  various,  and  as  you 
may  think  ingenious,  vicissitudes  and  events,  pitting  your 
poor  wit  against  Life's  loaded  dice  to  invent  a  situation 
unknown  to  actuality.  In  this  you  fail,  of  course,  miserably 
fail,  as  every  reader  or  spectator  who  happens  to  be  living 
a  play  of  his  own  knows  full  well.  But  readers  and  play 
goers  are  indulgent.  Knowing  a  story  of  their  own  more 
vivid,  more  peculiar,  more  unique,  and  with  stronger  and 
more  startling  situations  than  any  that  you  can  invent, 
they  yet  applaud  —  if  the  deneoument  be  but  logical,  flow- 


ii4  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

ing  as  a  natural  sequence  of  the  lines  and  the  situations. 
It  is  in  the  finale  that  their  interest  lies,  and  to  read  it  or 
see  it  they  endure  with  much  patience  all  the  acts  and 
scenes  that  precede  it.    For  their  own  plays  are  unfinished, 
and  they  are  wondering  about  that  last  act.    Whether  it  be 
comedy  or  tragedy,  in  Life's  plays  and  stories  there  is 
always  a  survivor  or  two  undisposed  of  —  so  long  as 
there  are  readers  or  playgoers.  These  smile  at  your 
cunningest  inventions  (if  they  be  twenty  or  over,  say) 
and  breathe  hard  only  on  the  final  curtain. 

tj  Bearing  this  circumstance  in  mind,  I  threw  invention 
to  the  winds  in  building  this  play  and  worked  for  an 
ending  that  should  be  logical  and  beautiful.  Perhaps  it  is 
neither.  I  am  stating  the  aim  merely. 

€J  But  this  man  and  woman  with  whom  you  start  out  — 
what  are  you  going  to  do  with  them  in  the  last  act?  Cut  off 
the  story  in  the  middle  with  marriage,  legal  or  actual,  if 
you  are  writing  a  comedy.  Kill  them,  or  their  lives' 
happiness,  if  a  tragedy.  There  is  no  other  course  on  the 
stage.   Is  there  in  life  ?   Not  if  the  play  is  compounded  of 
emotions  and  the  actors  are  strong  men  and  women. 
^  Are  there  other  possibilities  in  life  or  on  the  stage  — 
possibilities  neither  pathetic  nor  gloomy  ?    I  have  tried  to 
suggest,  in  THE  WHITE  FLAME,  that  there  might  be.    But 
such  possibility  will  not  be  found  on  the  physical  surface 
of  life.    None  of  the  real  problems  of  life  can  be  answered 
from  a  physical  basis  —  least  of  all  this  question  of  the 
relation  of  the  sexes  —  because  it,  and  life,  and  all  life's 
problems  are  far  deeper  than  the  physical. 
^  It  is  a  very  old  idea,  this  of  the  sexes  finally  blending 
to  produce  the  androgyne  —  the  perfect  human.  It  is 


THE  LAST  WORD  115 

hidden  in  many  an  ancient  and  medieval  symbol,  buried 
at  the  root  of  every  known  religion  of  savage  or  civilized 
man,  and  was  seriously  considered  by  every  speculative 
philosophy  up  to  several  centuries  after  the  Council  of 
Constantinople  elided  Reincarnation  from  the  Christian 
dogma.  And  it  may  be  true.  Who  among  us  is  so  wise  as 
to  know  that  it  isn't  ? 

€JIt  will  not  stand  the  scientific  test  of  Experience  — 
nor  will  Reincarnation,  or  anything  else  that  cannot  be 
weighed  and  measured.   But  man  cannot  live  on  weight 
and  measure  —  nor  by  bread  alone.  Forever  the  human 
heart  soars  beyond  science,  else  would  science  never 
advance.  Nor  will  even  the  mind  of  man  stay  chained  to 
sensation's  physical  evidence.    However,  it  can  be  stated 
in  terms  of  the  scientific  dogma.  Thus,  we  can  say  that 
sexuality  is  a  matter  of  polarization,  and  is  expressed,  in 
one  way  or  another,  thruout  the  universe.  The  seeking 
of  the  positive  life  current  for  its  harmonious  negative 
current,  and  vice  versa,  is  the  world's  unrest  mainly,  and 
obtains  on  all  planes  of  life  in  all  unisexual  creatures  — 
and  in  all  the  currents  and  forces  of  the  world.  It  is  the 
secret  of  electricity,  the  motive  of  chemical  attractions, 
the  meaning  of  life  to  adolescence,  the  unrest  of  maturity, 
and  the  solace  of  age.    In  the  human  family  at  present  it  is 
chiefly  expressed  on  the  physical  and  emotional  planes  — 
but  not  always,  nor  entirely,  nor  at  its  best  and  highest 
and  keenest  vibration. 

<I"  To  mesh  my  soul  within  a  woman's  hair,"  wrote  Oscar 
Wilde  in  anguish  —  and  to  avoid  so  vulgar  and  common 
place  a  fate,  alas  !  he  did  worse,  for  that  he  and  his  time 
could  not  see  further  into  life.    Might  not  the  converse  of 


ii6  THE  WHITE  FLAME 

his  anguish  be  possible  —  in  fiction,  if  not  in  life  ?    Could  a 
man  tangle  his  life  in  a  woman's  soul  ?  Is  the  thought  too 
remote  for  even  a  play  ?    Well,  it  is  a  beautiful  thought,  is 
it  not  ?    Could  such  a  thing  have  happened  to  Wilde  would 
literature  have  been  poorer?  I  cannot  think  so,  for  though 
the  tarnishment  of  his  soul  became  as  floating  ambergris 
on  the  sea  of  art,  the  stilling  of  his  sex  nature,  the  tran 
quillity  of  his  emotions,  might  have  left  him  free  to 
produce  even  a  greater  art  and  to  express  profounder 
truths  than  he  did. 


at  man  was  originally  androgynous  there  is  every 
reason  to  believe  —  every  reason  except  the  physical 
evidence  demanded  by  materialistic  science.  And  whatever 
was  shall  be  again,  not  exactly,  but  analogously.  In  time 
to  come  —  oh,  a  very  long  time,  of  course  —  man  will 
again  take  on  the  complete  human  form.    The  Superman, 
if  you  will,  shall  become  androgynous,  recombining  both 
the  negative  and  positive  life  forces  in  one  form. 

<IThat  will  not  be  a  physical  form,  however.  I  do  not 
understand  the  ancient  records  to  depict  man  as  a  physical 
androgyne  —  that  is  a  too  literal  rendering  for  me,  and 
not  a  logical  supposition.  But  man  was  originally  an 
ethereal  or  "  spiritual  "  being,  at  which  time  he  was 
androgynous  —  and  propagated  his  kind  by  mental  cre 
ation.  There  are  tales  of  the  "  mind-born  sons."  As  man's 
form  grew  less  ethereal,  as  he  was  about  to  "  descend  into 
matter,"  there  came  the  division  of  the  sexes,  the  negative 
and  the  positive  human  forces  separated  and  each  clothed 
itself  in  an  individual  form. 

<B  Humanity  is  losing  its  grossness,  the  human  form  its 
denseness.  The  long  cycle  of  human  evolution  again 


THE  LAST  WORD  117 

curves  toward  the  etherealization  of  the  human  form.  And 
when  the  race  as  a  whole  shall  put  off  its  garb  of  physical 
substance  then  shall  man  rebecome  bisexual.  Then  shall 
man  be  outwardly  and  consciously  that  God  which  in 
essence  and  possibility  he  now  is  —  and  the  evolutionary 
ultimate  for  the  race,  is  always  a  present  possibility  for 
the  individual  who  is  intelligent  enough  to  foresee  it  and 
strong  enough  to  grasp  and  fit  himself  into  it. 
<I  Briefly  stated,  that  is  the  theory,  fable,  fact,  philosophy, 
or  fancy  upon  which  logically  rests  the  hypothesis  of 
affinities.  And  upon  this,  and  its  corollary  idea  of  Rein 
carnation,  is  woven  the  fabric  of  THE  WHITE  FLAME. 

LUKE  NORTH 


YB   1 46 IT 


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